The Healer and the Horselord
by Girlbird
Summary: Lothíriel of Dol Amroth and Éomer of Rohan meet as strangers in the Houses of Healing in the aftermath of the Battle of the Pelennor and seek comfort from one another in a moment of darkness, when all hope seems lost. But when goodness prevails against all odds and life begins anew, what will this new age bring them? CW for sexuality, war, graphic injuries and themes of trauma.
1. Aftermath

1\. Aftermath

The young noblewoman rounded the corner and, satisfied that she was alone, collapsed against the wall, her back sliding down the cool marble stone until she met the ground. Inhaling and exhaling shakily, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, willing herself not to let the tears of exhaustion, horror, and hopelessness undo her. She had work to do, and needed to be stronger than her doubt. A moment's respite and then she would return to bring for the hordes of men that were still being brought in to Minas Tirith, though the battle on the Pelennor had ended hours before. There were many healers and volunteers like her out in the field, marking those wounded that needed aid quickly with red cloth, those that could wait with white, and those that were beyond aid, with black. A strange system, but effective.

So many were beyond any mortal means of help. Those that could be helped screamed in pain and horror as limbs were amputated and wounds cauterized with no way of easing their suffering. The Healing Houses of Minas Tirith had run out of medicines to dull the pain almost as quickly as the first round of wounded were brought in. Now, the screams and cries continued, dulled to a buzzing chorus that was ever present but no longer truly heard, at least by those amidst them.

The young woman had been on her feet for what seemed like an age, numbly following the orders of the practiced healers, bandaging wounds, giving sips of water and dispensing words of comfort, closing eyes that stared but would never see again. Had she eaten? She could not remember, nor could she stomach the thought of food.

_Oh, Illúvatar. Help me. _

But Illúvatar had other prayers to answer that night. She opened her eyes and with a sigh of resolve stumbled to her feet. She would go on. There was no other choice but to continue, numbly and mechanically, going where she was told.

A pot of hot water and clean bandages were thrust into her hands and she was sent out into the streets, streets lined with wounded warriors and citizens who awaited aid. She cleaned and bandaged wounds, marking those wounds that were beginning to fester with strips torn from red fabric. Some spoke to her, or asked her questions she seldom could answer, but most simply stared into nothingness with haunted, shadowed eyes, numbed into silence or delirium.

Upon her return to the Healing Houses, she nearly walked straight into the head matron, who was briskly exiting a chamber. The woman looked her up and down in quick appraisal, then said briskly, "You'll do. There is a woman brought in from the Pelennor and they say it is she who stayed the Witch King."

"A woman?" she stammered in confusion, then awe. "From the battlefield?"

The older woman's mouth deepened in what might have been a smile, although when she spoke her words were urgent. "A shieldmaiden. She is the sister of Éomer of Rohan, to whom the crown of Théoden King has passed. Aragorn of the Dunedain, yes, the one they say is Isildur's heir - has undertaken to call her back from the shadow. There is much that hangs upon this, girl. You must do as you are told, without question and quickly. First, fetch steaming water, clean cloth, and the Athelas herb and bring it to this room. I am needed elsewhere."

The young woman quickly rushed to fetch the supplies needed, numbly following her feet along their path, which they had trod countless times over the past hours. Upon returning, she steadied herself as best she could, and entered the room quietly. The room was strangely silent, cool and peaceful compared to the chaos of outside. The tall dark-haired man must have been Aragorn, for he knelt beside the bed of the shieldmaiden, his hand on her brow. Beside him, crouched in attentive apprehension, sat a bearded giant of a man, with long braided hair the color of cornsilk. This must have been Éomer of Rohan, sitting vigil at his sister's side. Neither Éomer or Aragorn looked up to acknowledge the new intruder, but the white-robed, silver-bearded man standing opposite them glanced in her direction and gave and h a slight bow of his head, bidding her come in.

The wizard, Mithrandir.

She bowed her head and hurried to place the covered bowl of water on the little table beside the bed. She stepped back a few paces and awaited further instruction as the men continued to talk. Their voices were strange and low, and she strained to hear, her face dutiful and passive but her ears alert.

"Few other griefs… have more bitterness and shame for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned. Sorrow and pity have followed me ever since I left her desperate in … and rode to the Paths of the Dead…" Aragorn said to Éomer. "And no fear upon that way was so present as the fear for what might befall her. And yet, Éomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought…"

The young woman glanced up in thinly-veiled surprise at the nature of this conversation. She wondered that there was time for such talk when a woman lay in peril on the bed, and impatiently waited for someone to tell her what to do. She tried not to fidget, but so accustomed was she to the relentless chaos of the past hours that this peaceful strange chamber seemed likely to suffocate her. Before she had sought an escape, not now she found she could not bear to stand in such idleness.

"I have, maybe, the power to heal her body, and to recall her from the dark valley. But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know," Aragorn continued more emphatically. "And if to despair, than she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown."

At this, the woman thought that perhaps she understood a small morsel of such despair. She watched with curiosity, wondering how Aragorn would heal the body, let alone the soul, of the cold, pale woman who lay upon the bed. Her arm had been tended to, but there was little sign of life in her face. What could this ranger from the North do that the adept healers of Minas Tirith could not?

Aragorn bent and kissed Éowyn on the brow with great tenderness. "Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!" he called softly.

At first there was no change, but then suddenly Éowyn began to breathe deeply, her chest rising and falling perceptibly. From where she stood, the young woman found herself inhaling breath as well.

Glancing up at her, Aragorn beckoned her forward. "Girl, have you brought the athelas herb?"

"Yes, my lord," she murmured quickly and offered the plant into to his outstretched hands, wondering what he would do with it. She had heard that the herb was useful against headaches, but what could do it do for a malady of the soul? How could it help who was passing into the Darkness?

"Open the pot of water."

She rushed to comply with Aragorn's order. He crushed the athelas leaves between his palms and dropped them into the steaming water, and then took a cloth and wet it, wringing out the excess before washing Éowyn's arm and brow with the mixture. He moved with great tenderness as he did this, and the young woman watched him with curious eyes. Just then, a breeze blew through the window and swept about the chamber, stirring the linens and the folds of her apron. It was as if a brand new season had entered therein, fresh and clean and as new as springtime. She blinked, for it suddenly seemed then that all would be well. What elven magic was this? And if it was indeed magic, would it work?

"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" said Aragorn then, taking Éowyn's wounded hand in his. "Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!" He then laid Éowyn's hand in the hand of her brother, who was weeping. As Éomer called his sister's name through his tears, Aragorn left the chamber.

The young woman wondered if she ought to remain, After a moment, she thought it would be best to follow, and she did, but not before glancing back at Éomer. Éowyn's eyes were open, and she was looking at her brother as if returning from a long and horror-filled sleep.

* * *

It was but the next day that it was decided that Aragorn, along with the other lords of Westeros, would lead a great host out to battle at the Black Gate of Mordor. The young woman's father would be among them, and her brothers. She bid them a tearful farewell and threw herself into her work, unable and unwilling to fathom that they would be gone so soon from her.

That night, as the final task of her shift, she tended to Éowyn, the shield-maiden, changing the dressings on her wounds and bathing her. She appreciated the moments in the quiet of Éowyn's chamber, a respite from the chaos of the other wards, which were still packed with wounded, with trauma, with blood, with dying and pain. As Lothíriel tended to her charge, Éomer, who had scarcely left his sister's side apart from being summoned to Aragorn's council, left the room to give them privacy. When Lothíriel left her patient, however, she found him leaning against the wall just outside the door, staring into nothingness.

"You should seek some rest," she said, after a pause. "Your sister is in good hands and she has passed out of danger."

"I will find no rest tonight," Éomer replied evenly, "I can never sleep on the eve of battle."

"Nor I," she murmured before she could stop herself. He flicked his eyes to hers as if surprised that she had spoken to him again.

"That is to say," she continued, flushing red under his direct gaze, which somehow thrilled and intimidated her, "When my father and brothers are to war, I fear for them. I sit up and await the dawn. It is only myself left behind, when they ride away. It is why I… why I came with them when they rode to fight on the Pelennor. I knew I could not bear to watch them ride away again and me do nothing. I camped not far away and rode into the city as soon as the battle was over to help."

"Do your father and brothers ride away from you tomorrow?" asked Éomer, studying her as he had never done before. Indeed his eyes had scarcely seemed to notice her prior to this moment.

She bowed her head and nodded solemnly. "This time I cannot go with them."

He shook his head, affirming it. "No one goes who plans to return."

She inhaled sharply, for although she had known it in her heart, the truth sounded much more real when spoken aloud.

"I am sorry," Éomer said a bit drily, his tone betraying his lack of true sorrow, "I know I ought to speak more tenderly, for your sake —"

"Don't!" she stammered as fiercely as her trembling voice could muster, "I am no child, nor witless lady. I know the truth and can face it. Indeed I have seen more pain and suffering these past weeks than I knew could be, and I have borne it. You cannot shock me, my lord, and it would be an insult to me were you to pretend that all would be well."

"You have no hope, then," he remarked after a time, studying her with an unreadable expression.

"Do you?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. I think not. The time has come to set aside hope and go forward knowing that this will be the end."

She nodded, then laughed suddenly as a strange thought came to her that seemed quite incongruent to the subject at hand.

He looked at her strangely, for indeed, she must have looked absolutely mad. "What is it?"

She chuckled, tears in her eyes, and shook her head, unable to speak. "It's only that - " she managed to say, through her laughter, "I have spent my whole life planning for a future that shall never be! I have set aside present happiness for future happiness. I have done as a good young woman should - never worn bright colors, never galloped too fast, never spoken my mind in public, never fallen in love, never — " she stopped, unable to continue, for it was too brash to say, and the lump in her throat threatened to overwhelm her laughter and make way for tears.

"Never what?" Éomer pressed, curiosity ebbing in his voice as he regarded her, no longer strangely, but rather tenderly.

She sighed. After all, why not? Why not say it? Propriety had gone out with the tide. She exhaled, then made her decision. "Never lain with a man."

He looked taken aback, but not shocked by her words. "Never?"

"It is not done," she explained hurriedly, wondering what he must think of her. "Not without marriage. A young woman ought to guard her virtue." She shook her head, now embarrassed. Why was she saying such foolish things to him?

"And you have guarded yours well."

She blushed and met his eyes reluctantly. "I do… I regret it, now. I would have liked to know what the fuss is all about."

He looked torn between laughter at her words and graveness. "Indeed, it is a pity," he said softly, and she froze, for now he was regarding at her with a new light flickering in his eyes, eyes that had until now been quite sober. He looked her up and down and she suddenly felt that he undressed her with his eyes, even though her clothing was serviceable and shapeless. It was a behavior she had noticed so many men do to other women, but never toward her, not so brazenly, at least.

"A pity?" she managed to stammer, grown breathless at the way he was looking at her now. He nodded.

She flushed, but she could not look away, and it seemed as if it was an age and a second all at once of this moment between them, until astonishingly he reached out and took her hand. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he brought it to his mouth, kissing her palm as unabashedly as if it was as common a gesture as a wave hello.

She shivered and inhaled at the brush of his lips across her work-torn palm, a palm that only days before had been smooth and unmarked by hard labor. He stepped closer to her, never letting go of her hand, which she did not try to withdraw.

"The night grows long." His eyes probed hers with a look in them that spoke of all that he could not say. "There is a comfort to be had…"

She understood the offer. She leapt at it, for nothing else made sense.

"Yes."

His hand tight around hers, he led her down the corridor. When he was certain they were alone, he turned to her, his hands coming to cup her face, claiming her and drawing her to him in a kiss that was unlike any of the clumsy, boyish kisses she had known from childhood sweethearts and lighthearted suitors, young men she had danced with who had stolen a kiss or two after a ball. So long ago.

This was a kiss that should have brought her to her knees, and indeed her knees buckled, but he had her firmly in his arms, lifting her and pressing her up against the wall and his mouth returning to hers before she could even catch her breath. Her legs came up to rest on his hips as he pinned her against the cold marble stone. Oh, he was warm and his body like a rock, shoulders broader than any she has ever seen. He had lifted her before him easily. The scent of him was strange and overpowering, not unpleasant, but foreign. The last boy she had kissed in her youth had smelled of perfumed soap and his lips had been chapped and tasted of salt. Éomer's mouth, for all his body's taught and chiseled hardness, was soft and yielding, a pleasing contrast to the thrilling roughness of his beard. His tongue teased her lips before gaining entrance, and a soft moan escaped her unbidden.

"Ahh, lass," he murmured against her mouth with a groan of his own, pulling away and running his hand down from her jaw and over her throat and past her breasts, almost to the pit of her belly, before returning up to her breasts to caress and rub them almost possessively. "Your mouth is sweet."

His lips found her throat and her body trembled, hips pressing wantonly against his for desire to be closer to him, to somehow alleviate the throbbing heat at the center of her. She wondered vaguely if he would take her there and then against the wall. She understood now how quickly it could happen, how a young woman ended up flat on her back with her skirts around her waist and, if she was not careful, a baby in her belly. She understood also how promises were made as quickly as they were broken, and how hearts were wounded as quickly as they were lit aflame. She understood with clarity, for this feeling of unchecked desire, both in her body and in her mind, was perhaps the strongest, sweetest thing she had known.

"Lass," he said in a low voice, drawing away from her slightly as if he sensed her wandering thoughts. "If… you would like me to walk away from you now, I will, but you must say it now before…"

"I am certain," she whispered, looking into his careful, questioning eyes, and while before she might have blushed and looked down, this time her eyes held his and her voice did not tremble. "I want to know what it is like, before…it is too late."

"Is there a place we can go?" he asked, "For it would be better if it was not here, against this cold stone wall, where anyone might see… it would be better for you."

She nodded, understanding, and took his hand, leading him to the little room that had served her a place to rest in quick bursts of sleep. While at first she could not sleep there, her mind too haunted by the sights and sound of the wounded, as of late her body had won out and she slept when she could, and deeply.

The little bed. It would do.

He stripped off his clothing hurriedly, and she tried to do the same, her fingers and hands shaking as she undid her apron and the ties at the shoulders of the loose kirtle. It seemed to take an age, and she found she could not look at him as she struggled with the simple task. Finally, she stood there in her shift, shivering slightly although the air was not cold, and returned her eyes to the mercurial gaze of the foreign bear of a man before her. She sensed that he had been watching her, and his eyes darkened with a longing that made her heart beat still faster as she pulled her shift over her head. She stood there clutching it for a moment, breathless and not sure how to proceed, though longing to. Her eyes darted over him, and widened at the sight of _all_ of him, and thankfully he did not let the moment linger. He moved straight to her, taking the garment from her hands and tossing it aside carelessly before taking her in his arms assuredly and kissing her, which comforted her, for _this_ kissing was at least familiar by now. One arm encircled her waist while the other tangled in her hair at the back of her head, drawing her to him like a missing half, joining them together, skin against skin.

Gratefully, her apprehension washing away as if by a rapid tide and her hunger somehow abated by the rejoinder and yet still constant at the same time, she let him guide her to the bed and lay her down, kissing her, moving over her, his mouth exploring her body as she explored his with her hands. His mouth found her breasts and then her belly and then her sex and she gasped and moaned in surprise and need. This she understood was for her pleasure and not exactly necessary for his, and yet she sensed he too enjoyed it, that he took pride and satisfaction and enjoyment in her body and in bringing it to a peak of agonizing need, pleasure, and withholding and ebbing and building again and-

Oh. _Oh. _Sweet release.

As her body recovered from the agonizing pleasure of her climax he drew away, watching her all the while, and she instinctively turned her head to hide her face, for he had seen her at her most vulnerable. But he did not let her linger long in embarrasment, and quickly crawled up over her, warming her body with his body, and placed his arms on either side of her head, turning her face back to his and kissing her gently. She smiled, forgetting her embarrassment and kissed him back, and it was barely a moment before she felt him pressing up against her entrance with his cock, gently and tantalizingly, over and over again, and the slick wetness there coupled with the warm, throbbing pleasure assured her that she was ready and eager for him, and she reached down and practically pulled him inside her. This gesture was all the assurance he needed, for he thrust fully in, and in again, and it was a strange new feeling to her but utterly welcome. There was no pain, only pressure and fullness as her body adjusted to him, and she clung to him and let him take her, finding his rhythm and responding in kind with her own body. She did not quite know if there was more that she should do, but he did not seem to notice or mind, and she gave herself blissfully up to his control.

When it was over, he held her in his arms and stroked her hair, her head resting on his chest, one leg drawn up over him. Neither of them spoke - for what was there to say that had not been said already with their bodies, with their eyes, with the unspoken understanding that had passed between them? This was not love, and there would be no promises made, but it was something honest, and it was tinged with sorrow, and it was raw, and it was tender as if each had drawn from the other what was needed for them to go on, and to accept what was to come.

It would be too much to think of love. Still, if ever she were to love someone, she mused as she lay there in his arms, it might have been someone like him.

He did not even know her name.

She would not give it. Somehow she knew that it was best they did not bother with more information than was necessary.

At last, her body spent and more tired than she knew, she felt a heavy weight of sleep rest upon her eyelids, and when she awoke early in the morning, he was gone.

* * *

_[A/N: _

_Disclaimer: The dialogue between Aragorn and Éomer and the events of Aragorn's healing of Éowyn are decidedly not mine and taken directly from Tolkien. I do not own those words and I do not own these characters_

_I just can't get enough of E + L. I have three separate storylines in the works for them, and here is the beginning of one. And we know my track record when it comes to finishing stories… I finish them but sometimes it takes six years. I'm not quite sure how or if this will turn out, but I look forward to seeing what happens! I appreciate your reviews. ~ GB] _


	2. Sanctuary

_[content warning for this chapter: surgery, thoughts of self-harm]_

2\. Sanctuary

"Don't cut! Don't cut, don't cut. Please… Mother, please!"

The young woman grit her teeth and ignored her patient's screams, doing instead as she was told by the healers, holding down the body of the young man whose gangrened leg was to be amputated. His cries were of no use, for there was no choice but to take the leg in an effort save his body. Minas Tirith had long run out of milk of the poppy and belladonna to dull the pain, and the need for them far eclipsed each effort to procure and produce more, and there was nothing to be done but ply patients with spirits and shove a leather strap in their mouth for them to bite down on as flesh and bone was sawed away.

She had long ago run out of the energy necessary to be squeamish or tentative. This carnage was merely a part of life now, as commonplace as breathing. Had there ever been a time when she had risen long after the sun, rolling out of silk sheets, broke her fast on whatever she wished, clothed herself in more pale silk and strolled along a sandy shore, spending her days largely at her own leisure? Or had that all been a dream, she wondered as she bore down her weight on the body of the poor boy whose body they mangled. It seemed now that she had known nothing before this.

Much later, when her shift ended, she walked out along the ruins of Minas Tirith. All was eerily quiet, although the tortured cries of her patient for his mother still hung in her ears like a horrible melody her mind could not shake.

Her patient had lived only a few more hours, despite the torture they had put him through in effort to save him. The infection had already spread beyond the leg to his blood. The small bit of mercy was that once the fever raged it had claimed him quickly.

She bowed her head, intending to spend a moment in remembrance of that poor boy, but prayers did not come.

She allowed herself a small moment of grace and remembered instead pale golden hair drifting about her face and warm breath upon her skin, the heat of a chiseled body moving tirelessly against her own.

_No._

He was likely dead and gone. So too were her father and brothers. She would never see any of them again.

_Why bother?_ she thought sometimes as she went about her work, which seemed mostly to augment suffering, not relieve it. Mankind was doomed to fall. Would it not be better to end life quickly than to draw it out?

Caught up in her dismal reverie, she walked to a place where the wall was completely blown away, destroyed by the catapults of Mordor. She stood there on the dizzying edge, gazing downwards. It would be quite far to fall, should she take a step further. Death would come swiftly.

It would be so easy, and yet… coming hastily to her senses with a sharp intake of breath, she took a violent step backwards. She would not do it. She might imagine it, and even entertain the idea of teetering on the edge, but she would not end her life this way. She raised her hopeless, defeated eyes to the horizon, towards Mordor's smoldering, blackened and fiery skies. It was a sight she was determined to face but there -

_Light._

A shaky breath escaped her and she blinked twice to make sure she was not seeing things.

Where black, stormy clouds had covered the eastern mountains for as long as she had been alive, stars now shone in a deep midnight sky. They were faint, as if veiled by a thin layer of cloud that lingered yet. But still they were visible.

Hope leapt in her chest in spite of her heart's resolve to set aside all memory of it, for the meaning of these stars was clear. She knew it now, instinctively.

Goodness had prevailed.

Life would endure.

Sauron was defeated.

* * *

The young woman opened her door to the frantic knocking that woke her and gasped in astonishment as a big bear of a warrior swept her off her feet into his arms. "We won," gasped the man she realized (almost too late) was Éomer. He told her more between kisses that were somehow both rough and coaxing. "The war is over. The halfling, the…" he laughed wildly, as if he still could not believe it, "He managed to destroy the One Ring." He set her back upon her feet, grasping her face in his hands and searching her eyes, his own gaze aflame with relief, desire, hope and fatigue all at once. "Sauron is gone."

She laughed and threw her arms around him as he kissed her once more, utterly surprised at his presence. Her senses were utterly overwhelmed and her chest breathless, but reason had not entirely left her. Wanting to look at him, she pushed him away as gently as possible, although it required considerable force to combat his eagerness.

"Are you injured?" she asked with a furrowed brow, searching him with urgency for visible wounds. He bore cuts and bruises on his hands and face, and his neck was covered in blood and grime that she imagined went beneath his armor, which he still wore.

"No, I am not injured," he said, laughing wildly and picking her up again, spinning her around.

"Stop, my lord," she managed to say between sobs and giggles, "Put me down and let me look at you."

Grudgingly, he complied, holding out his hands as if to say he was at her disposal.

Satisfied that he bore no major injuries, she looked at him in the face. "You are still in your armor, my lord."

"Yes," he said, looking down at himself.

"Why on earth did you barge in here, to me, and not seek respite and — a bath?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

"I —" he laughed, and shook his head, as if he did not quite know. "I am sorry! I could not think — as soon as I set foot in the city my footsteps led me to you! All I wanted was to see your face."

She flushed bright red and tried to hide it badly, looking around. "Would you - shall I help you, my lord?" she asked shyly.

"Do you know how?" he asked her, looking surprised. She nodded. "Ah, yes, your father and brothers."

She flushed at the mention of them, going to him and beginning the task of unfastening his armor. It was a different sort of armor from that of the Swan Knights, and yet she found she knew the steps well enough. "Yes - my father - " she started to ask, but then thought better of it. She could not think of that now. If her father and brothers had been spared, she would sing and rejoice - but if they had fallen, then she would weep, and she wished not to weep in front of him. Nor could she reveal herself to him, and asking after her family would require the truth of who she was, and that seemed altogether too complicated. How could she ever face him again. Not yet. No, not yet.

When she had completed the task, and stowed his armor carefully in the corner, she shoved him gently towards the little chair - a chair that was almost too little for him. "Sit and let me, at least, wash the battle from you." He looked as if he might protest and she cut him off with a look acquired from the intimidating matron of the Healing Houses. "Please."

He nodded, suddenly appearing rather weary, a stark contrast from his wild raucous entrance, and removed his shirt, watching her the whole time. She bit back a smile and busied herself with preparing the little washbasin in the corner of her room. Oh, how could she ever quell the sudden, untamable joy in her heart that threatened to bring her to her knees, having him there before her? And surely if her father and brothers had fallen, someone would have sent word straight away —

_No._ She pushed doubt out of her mind, unwilling to entertain the thought. Here was her warrior, safely returned to her. _Her warrior._ She closed her eyes briefly and reprimanded herself for that treacherous thought.

_Careful. _

Not her warrior_._ Just a man who had sought comfort in her bed, and she in his arms, when all hope had seemed lost and life about to end. And yet, there he was before her, come back to her, even in a moment of joy where he could have gone anywhere. He had come to her, his blood hot from battle and his body taught with a tension that was almost fury, and now she had tamed him with a mere look.

She turned back to him, determined not to let him see her heart, or know how she trembled. She knelt beside him carefully and began to clean his face, his hands, his arms and chest with the soapy water. The basin immediately turned red with blood when she returned the cloth to the water and she paused, her insides growing cold as she imagined unbidden that it was his.

She knelt there frozen, unable to move, and after a moment, two fingers found her chin, gently raising her gaze to his. Éomer looked down at her with concerned brown eyes that turned to understanding ones as he searched her face and discovered the tears that brimmed at her own lashes and threatened to fall.

"Lass," he murmured throatily, and pulled her up from her knees and into his lap, claiming her mouth determinedly with his own. Desire immediately sparked between them as their bodies remembered the first and last time they found themselves so close together. She straddled him, heedless of the remaining blood and grime, pressing hungrily against him as her hands tangled in the thick, matted braids of his hair. His own hands furiously unlaced the ties at the shoulders and waist of her overdress and practically tore it from her body. He loosened the drawstring at the neck of her shift and pushed the top of it down so that her breasts were exposed to the ravaging touch of his calloused palms. As he trailed rough kisses down her neck, she yanked her skirts and shift out of the way and unlaced his britches clumsily, and the next thing she knew he was inside her.

It was as if their need was insatiable, the way they melded together, and soon they found their way to the bed, hungrily grasping at one another as if each could not draw the other close enough. As he moved within her, though, something changed. His body began to shake, his breathing growing more and more ragged, until he let out a muffled haunting sound that chilled her with fear until she realized what it was. He was sobbing even as he had his release, letting out a deep keening wail, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She wrapped her arms and legs tightly about him and let him weep as long as he needed, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort and stroking his hair tenderly. What else could she do but be a cradle for him in this moment, bearing him like the sea would hold the ship of his sorrow?

The horrors he would have seen.

The grief.

The fear.

All of it was beyond her grasp of comprehension, although she had her own burdens to bear from her work those past few weeks, and horrors that she knew instinctively would never leave her mind as long as she lived. Nor would this.

All she could do was hold him and tell him without so many words that he was safe, that there in her arms was a place without judgment or shame, that her body and her heart were his for the taking at that moment, that whatever he needed from her she would give gladly, for he was also her sanctuary.

How could it be, she wondered, that a mere stranger had awoken all this turmoil and passion and tenderness within her?

She had never thought to hold him again. She had not hoped - or wished - or allowed herself to think beyond that singular night together. And now — now, he was in her arms, alive, whole - well, not whole. Not quite. But alive.

At last, his sobs subsided and he collapsed heavily against her, his breathing going quiet. She pressed a kiss against his head and groaned softly, for he was heavy and his weight not so easy to bear, although she knew instinctively that she would bear it as long as he needed her to.

He seemed, however, to come to his senses enough to realize he was crushing her and withdrew, rolling away from her and throwing an arm up to hide his face. Sorely feeling the lack of him, she tore her eyes away, sensing that he required privacy, and wiped her own face with her hand. It came away wet with her own tears and his, and with sweat and what else she did not like to think. She looked down at the torn and soiled shift that still hung on her body and chuckled a bit in quiet chagrin. Much of her clothing was likely beyond repair. Fortunately she had another clean set of clothing to wear for her labors, and would not have to face the shame of requesting another set right away.

Slowly, with a tired sigh, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, removing the ruined garments and tossing them aside. Fingertips brushed her back and she turned her head over her shoulder to see her warrior looking at her.

"I am sorry for this," he murmured, gesturing to the clothing she has discarded. He could barely meet her eyes. "And for all of it. I'm sorry."

She shook her head with a soft but resolved smile. "Well, I am not."

He chuckled a bit and returned her smile somewhat. His eyes when they finally met hers were grateful. "Thank you."

She nodded, choking back the odd feeling of being thanked for something she had needed as much as he. There was a warmth in her heart brought on by his sincerity that threatened to undo her in her fragile and astonished state. She walked to the washbasin, staring down at the blood that pooled within it. She closed her eyes for a moment, then dipped a new cloth into the pitcher, for the water in it was still clean, and used it to wipe her body down - the sweat and grime of him, and his seed from where it had spilled out between her legs. She bit her lip, a thought of worry nagging at the back of her mind. Whereas before he had been careful not to spill his seed inside her, today that had been forgotten. She knew there were infusions and such made from herbs intended to prevent a child from rooting in her womb. She would have to do as best she could to ensure there was no child from this union. That would not do.

"Are you alright?" he asked from the bed, and she nodded and smiled back at him reassuringly, feeling shy when she realized his eyes had been watching her. There would be time enough to worry about such things.

"You must rest now," she said softly, "Sleep. Éomer, sleep."

The unfamiliar feeling of his name on her lips gave her pause. She still had not told him her name. He had not asked. "Sleep," she said again.

He nodded, and leaned his head back on the pillow. He too had removed his clothing and tossed it aside, and she smiled softly at the sight of him naked before her. "Will you stay?" he asked, a slight stammer in his voice that endeared her further.

She stared at him wordlessly for a time, unable to find her voice. It was not wise to stay, but then again, what sense could she make of what was wise and what was foolish after what had transpired between them and in the world beyond this little room? At last, she was able to answer, lying down beside him and pulling the covers over them. "I will stay as long as I am able," she assured him, and with that he turned away with a ragged sigh, settling into a deep and heavy rest as she cradled his body with her own and watched him thoughtfully until at last her eyelids grew heavy and sleep claimed her too.

* * *

[A/N:

I usually wait a few days between chapters but I couldn't wait to share more! Thank you to those of you who have reviewed - as some of you pointed out, this premise is not unique - and I hope no one is offended that they have encountered similar scenarios in the past. I believe my take on a potential and plausible meeting of these two is entirely my own. I am interested in the horror and chaos of war in how it brings unlikely people together out of necessity and shared trauma, and I am interested in how then do you go on when you have been irrevocably changed, and how do the consequences of the choices you made in wartime play out when life begins anew. How do you heal? How do you heal and form a bond that endures and evolves beyond what trauma you have gone through? And so on. Speaking of healing, I'm also interested in Lothíriel the healer. More to come.

Please review if you can! thank you ~ XO, GB]


	3. Infection

3\. Infection

After what must have been only a few hours of sleep, Lothíriel woke in the early morning with Éomer's arm tossed over her and her body pressed up against him in a sticky tangle of limbs. When reason returned to her and she remembered how she had gotten there, she crept out from under his arm with some regret at having to leave the sweet sanctuary of his frame and dressed hastily in the pale dawn light. Then she tiptoed to the door, and, after a long last look at him, left him there, still fast asleep. She expected that he would sleep for some time yet, perhaps all day, or even longer. His body and his spirit needed deep and restorative rest.

His men would probably be looking for their king.

_Their king._ She swallowed as the weight of that title sunk in to her being. Éomer was a king, and he would have to have a queen. And she, a princess by her own right, could be considered a good match for him, if he would have her. But he did not know who she was. Likely he thought her some lesser noble lady, if he remembered that she had told him how she came to be in Minas Tirith. A lady would have been able to ride to the battle encampment with her lord - a commoner would likely not have that privilege.

Or perhaps he had not even registered the logical implications that pointed toward her station and thought her a commoner, if he thought of any of that at all. She imagined that he had not even paused to consider who she was. She was but a woman to him, a woman whose body he had partaken of, that she had gladly given. And perhaps that was all she wished to be to him. How could she face anything more?

These thoughts nagging at her heart, she stopped by the little kitchen that served food to those who labored in the healing houses, and bread and cheese and an apple were shoved into her palm. She sat on a bench and ate dutifully without really tasting the nourishment, her mind restless.

She had no real idea of what kind of man Éomer was. When he discovered the truth of who she was - and he must eventually find out - would he want her? Would he consider wedding the woman he bedded — would that be a worthy match for him - or was she a woman of loose morals? Would he consider her his possession, to do with as he pleased, and assume that she would wed him? Or worse, would he consider it his duty to save her honor? Would he tell her father, and force her to marry him out of feelings of obligation?

She scowled and rubbed her forehead, which ached. She did not know what she she should even expect to want of him. Nor could she fathom any sort of future at all. All she knew now was her work in the Healing Houses was what grounded her, as hard and exhausting as it could be. It was also rewarding, when pain could be lessened or taken away, and she had quickly grown capable and efficient during her time there. Her heart hungered to learn as much as she could.

The past few weeks had been some sort of enduring and terrible and evil nightmare, with Éomer a kind of sweeter dream that had interrupted the strange horror of the nightmare for a brief moment, but nothing more. She had never had time or reason to consider that there would be life after the war. Now the dream had faded, but life had continued, and she must face the repercussions, one way or another.

"My lady," a voice said, interrupting her thoughts, and she raised her eyes to a young lad in the livery of Minas Tirith. He held out a message for her, rolled tightly and bound with blue ribbon.

She took it quickly and opened it with trembling fingers, her eyes scanning the parchment quickly.

_Dearest sister,_

_We have all been delivered and have returned alive and mostly whole, but our father is injured. It is not a grave wound, and he has been tended to, but he requests your presence in the Healing Houses as soon as possible._

_Elphir_

Her heart pounding, she stood quickly, folding the parchment and stuffing it in her pocket. "Take me to him," she said to the messenger boy, and nearly ran after the boy.

Her father was sitting in a chair at a small table, upon which a breakfast of fruit and bread had been laid out. His arm was bandaged and contained in a sling, but he looked well, albeit tired. His sapphire eyes smiled when he saw her and he held out his uninjured arm, beckoning her to him.

"Father," she cried, and rushed to him, kissing his brow. "You have been reckless."

"It is not grave," said her father, wincing as she examined his bandages. "But I shall be inconvenienced for some time as it heals."

"You must take great care," she said. She looked up at him and smiled, tears in her eyes. "Father. You are safe."

"Yes," he said, smiling with tired but happy eyes. "And you, my daughter. You have been very useful, I hear." He looked her up and down. "And you are still at work here? You are in uniform."

"There is much to be done," she said, "The war is over, but it has not ended for many. I intend to stay as long as I am able to be of use."

His eyes assessed her for a moment, and he nodded thoughtfully at her words, although he did not look convinced. "Soon we shall return to Dol Amroth, I am certain, as soon as I am well enough to travel and arrangements can be made. There is much to be done. I am eager for us to return home."

_Home. _

Lothíriel felt a knot begin to form in her stomach and a sudden feeling of aversion when she thought of returning home. How could she return to that old life, now? A life of silk dresses in the summer and gowns of the finest wool in winter, of leisurely picnics on the beaches, of balls and feasts and idle hands? Who was that girl, that noble maiden, who had loved to read old poetry and gallop on horses and sketch landscapes, who had been happiest with a book in her hand and the sand beneath her feet? Where had she gone to? All Lothíriel knew was that, suddenly, her path was quite clearly laid out before her. She could not return to that old life, however her father might wish it. The girl she had been was gone.

Her father was watching her curiously. "Lothíriel?"

She cleared her throat, her reverie fading, and met her father's eyes. "Father, I — with your permission, I would like to stay here in Minas Tirith and learn from the healers. I can be of such use. I know that I am not ready to return home, not while there is work I can do."

"You are a princess of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel. You have duties there, and I am not prepared to spare you," her father said. "You have done admirably, but your place is not here."

"I do not know quite where my place is," she said after a moment, lowering her gaze. She steeled herself with resolve, so that when she raised her eyes to him, her voice would not waver. "But I am certain it is not to return to a life of insignificance in Dol Amroth. I love you, Adar, but I cannot go back to the life I knew before."

"Lothíriel," her father said, his voice turning to a warning. "It is not your place to question me, nor for you to choose. If I say you shall return, you will return."

She took a sharp breath in frustration, then calmed herself, searching for the words that would make him understand. "Father, I — I am asking you to try to understand. I have been fully occupied in my work here, fully occupied for the first time in my life. I cannot say that I have been happy, exactly, but I have been _useful_, and I have learned so much. I have seen horrors I never dreamed of, and survived them. I have helped save lives and ease suffering, suffering I never knew could exist. They say that I have a natural capacity for healing and caring for patients, and the Valar and you willing, I would like to learn." She sighed, and took his hand. "Please do not take from me the chance to forge my own way in the world. I have done everything you have ever asked of me, until now. You owe me at least the consideration. "

Imrahil regarded her for a moment, a muscle in his jaw working. "We shall not discuss it any more at this time. I will think on it, Lothíriel. That is all I can do."

She let out a breath, not fully satisfied, but not disheartened either. Surely he would see reason. "Thank you, Father."

"You look a bit like your mother," he said after a moment, regarding her. "When she would tend the sick. She dressed not unlike you are now, her hair braided and veiled thus."

As quickly as he said it, he looked away and cleared his throat, a muscle working in his jaw. He seldom spoke of her mother, who had died after contracting a fever from a poor family whom she tended. Lothíriel could only remember her now in bits and pieces, for she had been quite young. What she did recall was that her mother had been tall and striking in her peculiar sort of beauty, intelligent and forbidding but gentle in her way, always busy helping others, and Lothíriel had both feared and idolized her, always seeking her approval and basking in the glow of it when it did fall upon her. Her mother had not always seemed happy, she recalled now, and had often seemed discontent when it came to the duties that fell upon the Lady of Dol Amroth. But how she had loved her father, and her children. Of that much Lothíriel was certain.

"Father." Lothíriel covered his hand with her own. "I think she would approve of me and the work I am doing. I think now that… perhaps it is a life she would have wanted, were she able to choose. But of course, she had us."

He cleared his throat again, as if he hadn't heard her. "Tonight, there shall be a modest banquet to honor those who fallen, and to celebrate our victory. You shall be expected to appear."

"I have my patients," replied Lothíriel quickly, "I am expected to work. I cannot abandon those who need me."

"You are expected to appear with your family as befits your station," he retorted with firmness. "I insist."

"I will have nothing suitable to wear," she protested, in a desperate effort to dissuade him, "My riding habit I rode to Minas Tirith in, soiled irreparably from the first days of service, or my uniform as I am wearing now."

"A gown can be borrowed," said Imrahil, "And I daresay it matters very little."

"If you insist that I attend, I shall," Lothíriel relented heavily, "Although I question the point of such celebrations when so many continue to suffer."

"It is a way to honor those who have sacrificed," Imrahil admonished, and she shook her head.

"The best way I have to honor them is to serve them, and my time would be better spent here."

"You also deserve to celebrate, and it is my wish that you attend. I shall see you at the feast, and I suggest that you think of your family, and what it means that we are all reunited."

She sighed and nodded, trying to calm her irritation. She knew that although her father's tone was gentle, it was an order and he would be obeyed. "Then I had better get to work," she said quickly, "I shall look in on you later." She kissed her father's forehead briskly and left him, both relieved that he was safe and very much dreading the banquet indeed.

* * *

Lothíriel and a male healer, Aerandir, tended to a wounded young man whose leg had been amputated above the knee. He had been feverish and complaining of pain.

"Infected," remarked Aerandir matter-of-factly as he beckoned Lothíriel away from the boy's bedside. "Common in these types of wounds, even when great care has been taken."

"What will you do?" asks Lothíriel, following him quickly. "The leg has already been removed. There is not much more to take."

"We will dose him with more infusions to fight the infection from within," said Aerandir. "And we will attempt to debride the stump of infected tissue. It is tedious work, and painful, but necessary.

"We are still in short supply of milk of the poppy," whispered Lothíriel, glancing back at their patient.

"We will give him wine dosed with mandragora and hemlock," was her teacher's response, "But it will not be easy. We must ration it still, so there will not be enough to put him to sleep."

They returned to the bedside of the boy and the healer looked at him with a grave expression. "We must carve away the infected tissue."

"Do not take more!" cried the boy, his eyes fearful and wild, his hands thrashing about. "Please. I beg you. Don't."

Lothíriel took his hand reassuringly. He looked much like her brother Amrothos did at that age, and she steeled herself against that wave of feeling. It was too dangerous to think of anything but what was at hand, and yet something about this boy was too familiar. "We are trying to save what is left of your leg, and your life. You must be brave."

"No," he whimpered, his lips quivering. He was beyond bravado and looked and sounded like a frightened child. "Please."

"Shhh," she said soothingly, and helped him to sit up. She held the wine infusion that the healer handed her to his lips. "Drink."

He did so with trembling hands that she steadied with her own. Then she helped him to lay back again, holding his hand, and gave him a leather strap to bite down on. "You will be brave," she said, stroking the black curls of his hair. His eyes had gone glassy, and his hand slackened in hers.

"It has taken effect quickly," Aerandir remarked. "We can begin. Hold him steady."

Lothiriel did so as the older man took a sharp, sterilized knife to the stump. The boy bucked and screamed as the first cut was made.

"Hold him!"

"Bite down," Lothíriel said, holding the boy's jaw to the strap to encourage him to do so. She pinned him to the bed and wished she could see more of what Aerandir was doing. She craned her neck to watch, trying to take her mind off the horrible noises the boy is making. Carefully Aerandir excised away the dying or dead tissue and removed it with a sort of tweezers.

"He has passed out from the pain," she remarked upon realizing their patient had gone completely limp beneath her hands.

"A blessing," Aerandir said, "Come and look."

Eagerly, she moved toward the end of the bed beside the senior healer, who explained what he was doing as he worked, "I slice away the tissue that is dead or dying and remove it with the forceps. You can try it. Go on."

Lothíriel's eyes widened. It was more than she had hoped for. Could he mean it? "Really?"

"Go on," said Aerandir with a slight smile at her eagerness.

—-

Later, the boy awoke, his stump freshly bandaged. He sat almost lifeless, staring into nothingness, a look that Lothíriel by now knew quite well. No blanket covered his legs, and the stark contrast of the leg that was missing next to the leg that was whole was jarring to see.

It was a bitter reality for a young man to face.

Still, he was alive.

"You are going to live," she said brightly and briskly as she came to fluff the pillows behind him. "There are many with your injury who have not been so lucky." She thought of the boy who had screamed and screamed for his mother when they took his leg, only to die later of a raging infection. His face and the noises he made, the sound of the saw used to carve away the bone - that would never leave her mind. This boy, at least, would not die.

"But what kind of a life will it be?" the boy asked her, turning blue eyes to hers. They were bitter, haunted, challenging eyes. He was angry, as he should be.

Indeed, what kind of life would it be? What work could he do? Who would love him? Who would lie with him and bear him children?

She softened, these questions burning her mind, and reached out to smooth his hair from his brow with all the tenderness she could muster. "I don't know," she responded as gently and firmly as she could, for he deserved honesty as much as he deserved to be comforted He lowered his eyes and nodded bravely, a muscle working in her jaw.

Poor brave boy, trying so hard to face his future like a man.

"What is your name?" she asked, wishing now to distract him.

"Muinor," he responded after a moment.

_Dear one_. Someone had bestowed that name who had cherished him. "How many years old are you, Muinor?"

"Sixteen," he answered, "How old are you?"

"I am twenty-one," she said, smiling, even as her heart broke for his tender age.

"What is your name?" Minor asked.

"Lothíriel," she replied.

"Will you stay and talk with me?"

She creased her brow, wanting to say yes, but also deeply tired, and all too aware that her father and brothers awaited her. She had been warned about investing too heavily in her patients.

"I can stay with you for a moment, at least," she relented, softening at the look in his eyes. He was just a boy, and he was alone, and hurt beyond repair. He might walk with a wooden leg, if his stump could bear weight, but he would never run, or sit a horse, or dance with someone he loved. His life, like his body, had been altered unfairly, so many chances stolen from him before he could even consider them. She could spare a few minutes more of her time, and after all it was a banquet that awaited her, not some grave important matter. Her decision made, she sat upon the bed and took his hand.

"You're pretty," he said, swallowing, "You look like a picture I once saw, of an elf maiden who gave her love to a man."

"Luthien," she replied, laughing at the reference, "They say she had dark hair and light eyes, but I am sure that the resemblance stops there. You must still be feeling the effects of the potion we gave you, recanting old legends and seeing elf maidens when there are only mere women."

An idea struck her that might bring him some distraction, at least, from the long, fear-filled days and nights. "Do you read, Muinor? For tomorrow I can bring you books, to pass the time."

"I read a little," he replied and for a moment there was an eagerness across his face, albeit one that was quiet and all too brief. She smiled, resolved.

"Alright then," she responded brightly,. "Until tomorrow, then, Muinor. Try to rest."

He nodded, and closed his eyes, and she squeezed his hand once more before turning to go. As she left, the tears she had steadfastly fought to withhold broke through her defenses, and she blinked them back, wiping her eyes furiously.

A hand reached out to stop her as she entered the corridor, and she started, nearly jumping away from the touch.

"I'm sorry," Éomer said quickly when she raised her startled eyes to him. "I did not mean to startle you."

"What is it, my lord?" she said, recovering, wiping her eyes furiously and folding her arms across her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking in on my sister."

"And how do you find her?" she asked, almost impatient at this conversation. She found herself glancing past him, wanting to flee, for he was looking at her with such a soft yet hungry expression that it frightened her.

"I find her much changed," Éomer said, "There is a light in her eyes now that was not there before when first she awoke."

Lothíriel lowered her eyes. There was perhaps a reason for that, and not just that they had won, but having to do with her cousin Faramir, who was convalescing from his own near death. "That is well, my lord."

He reached out and lifted her chin so that she was compelled to look at him. "You are troubled, my lady," he said.

_My lady. _He had called her my lady, when before it had been lass. Did he know or suspect who she was? But of course he would have realized that she was not a commoner.

"It is difficult sometimes," she said, meeting his gaze, "To be strong in the face of suffering."

"You are good with them, your patients," was his response, "I did not have the mind to notice it before, but you have a way about you."

She flushed under his assessment, wishing he would stop looking at her thus, with so much warmth and tenderness. "My lord, I must go - my patients, they await me," she stammered.

"Of course," he said, releasing her quickly. "I will not keep you. Only," he said, catching her arm again as she started to go, "I wished to ask you - your name, lass."

She froze and looked up at him, unprepared to give that answer.

"You have one, I assume," he said, looking quite amused, "And I have been remiss to not have asked after it."

"It hardly seemed to matter, did it?" she said, withdrawing her arm, "My lord, I really must go."

His brow furrowed, he let her go, and she fled, kicking herself inwardly the entire way to the next ward. She ought to just have told him, and be done with it. On the other hand, he ought not to have snuck up on her and interrupted her the way he had, she rationalized, and made her way to finish her final tasks before that dreaded banquet.

* * *

A garment had been laid out for her and placed upon her bed, a borrowed gown from some Gondorian noblewoman or other. The fit was not too far off, although the sleeves were a few inches too short and the bodice a bit too big all over, but at least it was a high-waisted garment that cinched just below her bustline and the fact that it was too big was not obvious. She shrugged, caring not at all, and put it on. There were laces at the back of the gown that she cinched tightly as best she could, although it was difficult to do so herself. A simple coronet had been included with the gown, so at the tiny mirror on the wall, she released her hair from the tight plaits she had taken to wearing beneath the austere hair covering that she wore during her work, combing it through with her hands. It lay about her shoulders and down her back in neat waves from the plaiting, and she sighed, doing her best to arrange it in a way that would be serviceable. Alas, it had been so tightly braided that the waves were not pleasing, so, with a sigh she plaited them back up and, after placing the coronet on her brow, crossed the plaits around her head in a sort of crown, pinning them. It was a rather provincial style, reminding her of the peasant girls she would often see in her travels throughout Gondor, picking grapes in the vineyards or olives in the olive groves. If not for her gown, which was made of far too fine a fabric, richly dyed of burgundy and trimmed in gold brocade, and of course without the ornament at her brow, she herself would pass for one of them, perhaps - although they had been tanned and ruddy, barefoot in the dirt, and she was pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her hands, perhaps, were now as rough and callused and dry as a vineyard girl.

Lothíriel smiled to herself, rather amused. What better way to silently protest being summoned to this banquet than to appear like them? She debated putting her healing habit back on, but shook her head at her folly. She might contemplate silently such revolt, but would never do it.

Not so long ago she would have had a handmaiden to arrange it in the latest fashion, another handmaiden to dab small amounts of rouge on her cheeks and lips and to thicken and lengthen her lashes with kohl. No longer. And how silly it all seemed to her now.

Smoothing the last stray strands of hair away from her face and pinning the braids in place more firmly, Lothíriel gave herself a final assessment in the mirror. She scarcely had glanced at herself in the past few weeks, except to ensure she was presentable. The woman who stared back at her was thinner, that was certain. Her mouth was set in a thin line, her forehead drawn beneath the gold coronet. Who was this woman? She recognized her, and yet, somehow, not at all.

She frowned at herself in the mirror and shrugged, satisfied that she would at least not disappoint. It would have to do.

* * *

[A/N: Hello, all. It's been a while. I'm stuck at home, not going out except to work a few hours day (I am providing emergency childcare to healthcare workers' children, so it's necessary that I go, and then I come straight home). I imagine that many of you are in the same boat, or perhaps even worse off, in which case my heart goes out to you. I wanted to at least post some updates. I'm trying to use much of my time to pursue and develop my other art, but this is important too, and Éomer and Lothíriel had been left quite in limbo where I left them, and they still are (muahahah! They will be for quite a while, but at least very soon, they will have to confront things) … anyway, not a ton happened in this chapter, just character development, but more will come soon.

Thank you to all who have left a review, or followed the story, or added it to their favorites. It means so much to me. I hope you all are staying as safe and healthy as you can, that everyone has enough food to eat and supplies they need to get through this time. We will get through this, together. Keep writing, keep making art, do yoga, reach out, connect with people virtually, take the time for yourself too. Send me a DM about anything - anything you need to talk about, I'm here! And I mean anything.

All my love, xo

Girlbird]


	4. Drowning

4\. Drowning

The banquet hall was well-lit and bustling with people, perhaps more than it was meant to hold. It seemed that every citizen that could be had been crammed into the hall, and still more besides. The feast was well underway, which mean that upon Lothíriel's entrance, no one turned a head. At the furthest point of the room, Aragorn sat at a high table with several other lords. To his right was Éomer, and to Éomer's side was her father. Lothíriel swallowed. Of course Éomer was here. She was not exactly surprised, but she wished she had thought to warn him. If only she had told him who she was when he had asked her, and not have fled like a startled deer.

Lothíriel was not allowed to wallow in her regret, however, as upon setting foot in the hall she was swept up immediately by two nearly identical Swan Knights and spun around with a glad cry.

Once she was on her feet, she looked sternly at her two brothers for their lack of decorum, but she found she could could not hold the pretense at the glad sight of their faces, alive and whole, and she burst out laughing. The sensation of laughter felt strange upon her lips and ears as if she had not laughed in many weeks, though she was certain she had.

"Lothíriel, where have you been?" asked Amrothos, who was her closest brother in age. He looked her up and down, then up at her face. "You look very… odd." Erchírion elbowed him in the ribs.

"She has been quite busy," said her most serious and sensitive brother, "And you shall not tease her, Amrothos, or comment on her attire, as we are all at the mercy of our hosts."

Lothíriel shot him a thankful glance, and embraced both her brothers tightly in turn. "Thank the Valar you are well. And Elphir? Is he here?"

"There he is," gestured Amrothos to their eldest sibling. Elphir, who was many years their senior, was deep in conversation with an elderly nobleman, but when he glanced over at them, his face lit up and he gestured to his partner that he would return.

"Dear sister," Elphir said, approaching her as quickly as decorum would allow. "You look well," he said, and embraced her formally, kissing both her cheeks. "Thank goodness you are here. We were waiting for you and thought you would not come."

"I am sorry," stammered Lothíriel at his chiding tone, "I was with a patient who needed great care," she explained, but Elphir had already looked away as if he was searching for something, or someone.

"Come, Lothíriel," he said, taking her arm. "You must be presented at the high table. Lord Aragorn shall be King, and you must go before him so that he can receive you and welcome you to the banquet."

"Oh no, Elphir," protested Lothíriel, dread flooding her heart, for to appear before Aragorn was also to be presented before Éomer, and surely it would seem to him as if she had been mysterious about her identity on purpose, as if she had meant to reveal it in such a shameless way. "Must I? Can I not pass unnoticed?"

"Yes, Lothíriel," said Elphir, not heeding her, "Why else would you be here? You are the lady of Dol Amroth, and our king must know you."

Lothíriel's heart pounded in her ears as her brother escorted her between the long banquet tables and before the high table. She could feel the eyes of the whole hall collectively turn toward her, and she kept her gaze firmly on the ground, hoping to pass as demure rather than terrified. She had never relished being the center of attention, but knowing that Éomer was about to be apprised of her identity in the most unfortunate way caused a knot to tighten in the pit of her stomach. What would he think, or worse, what might he say?

"Great lords of the west, I present my sister, the Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," announced Elphir, bringing her forward and stepping back so that she was on her own.

Lothíriel swallowed and swept a deep curtsy, the most formal she could muster, her eyes fixed on the floor respectfully. "My lords, I am honored."

"Arise, my lady," said the rich and musical voice she recognized as Aragorn's, and at his kind command she did as she was told. She could not help but raise her gaze to his, but her eyes instinctively sought Éomer as she did so. He - resplendent in green and gold, his hair braided formally - was watching her with an unreadable mask of expression - what was the feeling in his eyes? Was it shock? Anger? Bemusement?

But she could not bear to look at him long enough to tell, and she turned her gaze to Aragorn, who smiled down at her kindly. "I remember your face," he said, "You were in the healing houses."

"Yes, my lord," she said, astonished that so great a man would remember her. He had scarcely seemed to notice her, so consumed he had been by healing Éowyn, and yet it appeared that he had taken more notice than she had thought.

"My thanks to you for your work and sacrifice," Aragorn said, "You also deserve to be honored, alongside those who have fought. You have served your lords and country well. "

She blushed and shook her head, saying, "My lord, I only did what was needed — I do not deserve more honor than any other, and I only did what I was told by those with more knowledge than I."

"Nay, my lady, you deserve all the honor in the world," spoke up another voice, and it was Éomer's. She looked at him in astonishment. He stood abruptly. "Please, my lady, be seated in my place," he stated, gesturing before him, "Beside your father and your future king is your rightful seat."

A soft murmur swept through the banquet hall. Éomer's tone was sincere, and Lothíriel bowed her head in shocked acceptance. What else could she do? Éomer came down the steps and extended a hand, and after the barest hesitation, she placed her hand in his, meeting his gaze with eyes that she hoped were contrite.

His hand was strong beneath hers, but he did not give any indication of acknowledging her sheepishness and escorted her up the steps to the raised table, and seated her in his spot, to a smattering of applause. She wondered what he planned to do, but it became clear as he stepped down the steps and seated himself at a table full of Rohirrim.

A servant came and replaced Éomer's plate with a clean one, and poured her wine. She thanked her and took a drink gratefully, her cheeks feeling impossibly warm.

"Father," she greeted, finally remembering that her father was at her left. He put a hand on hers.

"That was quite a reception," was her father's remark, "You have been granted a high honor."

She nodded, glancing down at where Éomer had seated. He made no indication that he had given her a second thought and she wondered desperately what he was thinking. "I do not feel deserving, father, of such a seat," she said after a moment.

"You must have made quite an impression, or perhaps King Éomer was merely eager for an escape from this table. He is a fine and honorable man, this Lord of the Riddermark, but I confess I think him more at home on the back of a horse than at a banquet table." Her father's tone was of fond amusement as he spoke of Éomer.

"He has chosen to sit with his men," remarked Lothíriel, unable to tear her eyes off of Éomer as he sat and toasted his comrades, looking strong and proud and somehow majestic even as he laughed with them. "I think he appears more at home with them than on display up here."

Her father chuckled, "And not a soul could fault him for that. We owe Éomer much, my daughter. And he is indebted to us in turn. I am proud to have found a friend in such a man."

Lothíriel swallowed. "What do you mean, he is indebted to us?"

Her father lowered his voice, "When he found his sister's body on the battlefield lying cold and still, he rightly assumed her to be dead. But I saw there was life in her, and so she was brought to the healing houses to be healed, and it was Aragorn who healed her."

"I knew that part," remarked Lothíriel quickly, "For I was there in the room when he did it, and assisted as best I could. I did very little, Father, I had only been there a few hours - I only fetched water and herbs"

"I did not know that," her father said in surprise. He shook his head as if in disbelief. "Then that explains how Aragorn knew your face."

"It does." Lothíriel took a thoughtful bite of the food that had been laid out before her, thinking back to that day in the healing houses, of the calm quiet of that room, the sweet fresh scent of the athelas, of Aragorn's words to Éowyn as he had called her back. _All darkness is washed clean. _

Perhaps it was true, she thought, but if it were so, why did so many still suffer? She squirmed in her seat, suddenly feeling quite uncomfortable in her borrowed gown, its stiff heavy fabric so unfamiliar to her. All she had known for weeks now was the simple linen and cotton of her healer's habit, and she found she yearned for its freedom, for the simple dress had become a comfort to her. In a way, she was anonymous in it, merely a symbol of the vocation of healing, and an instrument to be used for good. The heavy gown she now wore was anything but anonymous and anything but freeing. She glanced at her father, feeling his gaze had grown scrutinizing, and tried to smile.

"I am proud of you for your bravery and your commitment," her father said after a moment, patting her hand. "You have done Dol Amroth proud, my dearest daughter."

She looked at him, surprised, and smiled a more true smile. It was nice to hear his praise, when that afternoon he had seemed so indifferent to her efforts. She glanced to Aragorn at her right, wondering if he had heard any part of this conversation, but it appeared that the great lord was otherwise occupied, watching a dwarf and a fair-haired elf engaging in some sort of friendly competition. A space upon the floor had been cleared and music had been struck up in joyful chords, signaling the onset of dancing.

It was not long after the music began that Lothíriel was invited to dance, and although she wished to escape, she could not refuse an invitation without risking being thought improper, so she set out onto the floor with her partner, a well-attired knight of Minas Tirith, and half-heartedly joined in the dance, responding politely to her partner's queries, but wishing for a quick escape.

The music had been lively, when they had joined the dance, but it quickly turned, this time to an old favorite. It was a popular slow-paced dance whose steps required that the dancers rotate partners throughout. Lothíriel did not mind this one, and she knew the steps by heart, and she found herself caught up in the lilting melody and the vibrant blur of the dancers, even enjoying herself.

It was easy to forget all else, but when she rotated partners and found herself face to face with Éomer, reality crept in. She looked up at him in clear surprise and he met her gaze steadily, a question in his brown eyes.

"My lady," was all he said, taking her hand and bringing her to his side as the steps dictated. Her heart fluttered uncontrollably inside her chest at his nearness. He was a splendid sight, imposing and majestic, in these clothes of a king, and she found herself overcome, foolish as it was. How strange to think that she had held him in her arms not even a full day before, bearing his sorrow, that she knew the man inside those clothes, and yet that she knew him not at at all — and that he knew her, and yet, not at all.

"My lord." She let him lead her through the steps of dance, feeling sheepish and warm. "I owe you an explanation," she stammered and he made a noise of quiet acknowledgement.

"Perhaps," was his reply, "But I think it best we not speak of that now."

She nodded and fell silent, looking at him sidelong as they danced, anxious to know what he was thinking. He did not seem angry, at least, but there was a thought or a feeling behind his eyes she could not place.

She did not get a chance to inquire, for the music signaled that the dancers rotate partners and she found herself with a new set of all too curious eyes. At last, the music ended, each set of partners from the beginning of the dance returned to one another. She did her best to smile and applaud with the rest of the dancers, and politely allowed her Gondorian knight to escort her from the floor.

"May I fetch you a refreshment, princess?" asked the knight, and she nodded gratefully, if nothing else to be relieved of his presence for a few moments.

"Wine, or something else?"

"Whatever you may please," she said with a gracious, if strained, smile. She looked around, seeking a familiar face - anything but Éomer's, for she was all too aware that he stood not ten yards from her. Her father was deep in conversation with Aragorn, her brothers — there was Amrothos, looking inebriated, arm in arm with another swan knight, singing raucously, and not far from him, Elphir, looking considerably less serious and restrained than usual, and even as if he was enjoying himself - but none were close enough to come rescue her.

She sighed and waited there impatiently for her partner to return, trying to think of an an excuse to abandon him as soon as he returned. It did not occur to her that she might have simply disappeared into the crowd to evade him, that another young woman might have done so without a second thought. So she waited, watching the crowd of fair and dark heads mingle, and tried to ignore the heat of the crowded hall and the sweat that dripped down her back beneath the cotton of her undergown, and under her arms.

She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling as if she might faint.

"Princess," said the knight, pressing a goblet of wine into her hand. "Are you all right?"

"Quite all right," she managed to say, opening her eyes and focusing on his. They were a clear blue, shocking in his handsome face. Too handsome a face, she thought dimly in her hot and flustered state. The face was too unmarked by any sort of feeling or sorrow, with nary a scar from battle to be found. She thought then of Muinor, the boy she had tended in the healing houses who had lost leg, who surely lay alone that very moment frightened and in pain, and looked back at the man before her with somewhat unwarranted disgust in her heart. He had done nothing outright to offend her, and yet his eyes were empty of any sort of proper spark or felling thought. Here he was, unharmed, offering her wine and looking at her with a hopeful, rather cocky expression on his face that told her he would not be easy to shake. He looked her as if she wanted nothing more to be flirted with, and offered wine - and talked at, perhaps.

"Thank you for the dance," was all she said, as dutifully as she could muster.

"It was my honor," her partner said, "Princess - you must be looking forward to…" he began to say, but Lothíriel, suddenly very keenly aware of the the loud peals of laughter that struck her forcefully from all sides, the joyous hum of the crowd, at the dancing and light music, was suddenly overcome by an impassioned feeling of incredulity, even rage.

How could they celebrate - did they not know? Had they forgotten those that lay crippled by wounds, who struggled to breathe, who burned in their beds from fever brought on by infection? She shook her head, finding it difficult to draw enough breath in the heat of the room. "I need fresh air," she managed to say, and fled her partner with scarcely a look in his direction.

"My lady, wait," called t, but she did not heed him, only walked faster, escaping to outside the Great Hall. Once she was outside in the night air, she swayed, and collapsed against the wall. She could not breathe. As tears fell from her eyes she felt herself slide down the wall to the ground, her chest wanting to explode as she sobbed and frantically sought a way to gain control of herself. Her breathing came too fast, and she could not take in enough air, no matter how she tried. _Oh, Valar help me._

For a moment it felt as if she was back in the streets of Minas Tirith in the aftermath of the battle, binding wounds, blindly trying to staunch bleeding, but the streets were underwater, and there was no air, and no sound, apart from the rush of blood to her ears.

Hands steadied her, out of seemingly nowhere, supporting her so that she was not lying on the ground, but sitting upright. She could see leather boots and knees crouching in front of her and wasn't sure at first who had caught her, until the person spoke, and even then, she did not know the voice right away, although it was familiar.

"Breathe, Lothíriel. Just breathe. Focus on my voice. In and out," said the voice, which was calm and deep, and she fought to follow the directions, dimly realizing that she knew the voice by heart. It was Éomer who had caught her. He must have followed her, as if he knew she was in need of aid, but how had he known?

"That's it. That's it. There. You are breathing. Keep going, slow. In, out. There's a good lass."

Her breath came more steadily now, and she could see him now, his face a blurry wash of concern. She knew that tears were still streaming endlessly down her face, and there was nothing she could to do stop them. She wished that he would stop looking at her so intently, for it was as if she was naked before him all over again, and yet this time not of her own accord.

"There you are," Éomer said, when at last her breathing had calmed and her eyes had focused fully on him. "I thought I had lost you for a moment - but you are right as rain, my lady."

"Thank you," she murmured, lowering her gaze and taking a shaky sob of a breath, "My lord, I am so sorry —" she started to continue, but her breathing picked up again and she started once more to shudder and sob, and so he shushed her patiently.

"Don't try to speak just yet," he said soothingly, "Slow, steady breaths."

When she was able to stand, he raised her to her feet gently and led her to a marble bench beneath a little cherry tree. They were in a tiny courtyard in the center of which a small fountain bubbled cheerfully, but they were alone.

"Sit," Éomer said, his voice kindly firm, and she complied, for in that moment she could only cling to his directions. "Bend your head down between your knees. You will be alright."

She followed the order, bowing her head down as he instructed. Slowly, she finally felt herself gain control of herself again. Éomer sat beside her and waited quietly, not pressing her for anything, and she wondered again, this time more urgently, how he had known she needed help. Had he been so in tune with her, as she had somehow been aware of his every move during the banquet? She was grateful for it, for without him she might still be struggling to breathe, but she marveled at his being there. And how near he was to her now, and even in her sorrowful state, it seemed to her that every nerve in her body was aglow from his closeness. How his presence affected her, as it had always done so. So much had passed between them, and it struck her then that she would always feel this way when near to him, as if her body was a part of his, tied so intrinsically that she always knew keenly where he was.

She thought it strange that she could know so much about him, having seen him at his most vulnerable, and also at his most high in feeling, and yet at the same time, know very little of the man he really was. Somehow he seemed to her a stranger, here as he was before her. This was a different Éomer than the solemn, shameless one who had taken comfort in her bed the night before battle, and different too from the one who had burst into her chamber upon his victorious return, wild and incoherent with disbelief, who had wept in her arms as he came inside her. This Éomer was calm, cool-headed, and self-possessed. It was his turn to see her brokenness, perhaps, and she wondered if he would shy away. He seemed unfazed, taking her in stride. And somehow he knew exactly what to do.

At last, she was able to speak, and though he had not asked for any explanation, she felt compelled to give it. "I was never fond of crowds or large celebrations. Never. I attended them, of course, but I was always more at home alone on a beach with nothing but my thoughts for company, or with a book. Or on the back of a horse."

Éomer leaned forward on the bench, looking sideways at her with eyes that were free of judgement. "And now… It is overwhelming to be in such a grand feast when all you have known for the past weeks has been the chaos of battle, and then the rigor of the healing houses."

She shook her head, although he was not wrong in his assessment. "It is more than that. It's that people can celebrate like this, after all that has happened. After all the suffering that has gone on, that continues to wreak its havoc within the walls of this city — have they all forgotten so quickly?" She searched Éomer's face for an answer, wondering how he could remain so calm and steady in the face of her distress.

"People deserve to find joy where they can," he answered thoughtfully, "There will be more time to grieve and remember those who are lost, my lady. But tonight they deserve to laugh and be merry, if nothing else, from the memory of all that has happened, they need to escape for a moment and be thankful they have been spared."

"And yet how can they? How can they sing, and dance, and be joyful when I— when I cannot —" and it was here that she began to weep again, this time inconsolably, even childishly, weeping for the first time for all that _she_ had lost, for the careless girl she had once been, for the innocence that never again would be, and Éomer merely sat there and waited until she could speak again. He made no move to comfort her, but somehow his presence alone was enough to calm her, and she was compelled to say more, and give words to that which she had not even let herself dwell on, that despair which she had held too close to her heart to even name. When she spoke, she spoke haltingly, but did not censor herself.

"When I waited alone in the encampment, frightened and unable to do anything, I could hear the battle as clear as if I was in the thick of it. I could hear the clashing of swords, the endless cries, the thundering of the Mûmakil, the shattering of stone - the screams of the Nazgul. All that I loved was in peril, and I felt I would never see my family again. And then when the battle subsided and I rode to Minas Tirith to aid where I could - there was such carnage. I saw men who were nearly cloven in two who somehow still could draw agonizing breath. I assisted as saws cut through bone, I pressed my hands over wounds so grave, trying to staunch bleeding that came so fast I could feel the hearts cease to beat beneath my hands - I —," she broke off, unable to say anymore, and finally met Éomer's gaze, which she had not done since she had begun to speak.

His eyes were grave as he regarded her, but still free of judgement or pity. "You have seen much, lady. It is no small thing, what you have done. And it may take a good deal of time, before you can find joy again - but you will find it. Have faith."

"I cannot forget. Not now. Nor can I dance and sing and be merry. Not now." She lowered her gaze and wiped her face furiously, for it was wet with tears and who knew what else. Éomer moved from the bench to crouch before her, taking her hand and covering it carefully between his own - the strong, capable hands that by now she knew so well.

"I understand, Lothíriel. I do. Believe me, I do. Lothíriel…" He laughed a bit and looked up at her with a soft smile, "It is strange to have a name to put to your face."

"I am sorry I did not tell you - It seemed too difficult," she managed to say, wanting to explain everything. "I did not know how to be - or indeed, want to be - anything other than the girl in the healing houses to you. We were never supposed to see one another again, let alone come together at a grand banquet as a King and a Lady."

"I understand," was his refrain. He looked down at her hands in his then as if overcome, and after a moment, he slowly brought the hand he held to his mouth and pressed a deliberate kiss upon her knuckles. "Lothíriel, I —"

She quickly withdrew her hand from his grasp and stood, her face flushing. He was too near, too familiar and tender with her, now, and she did not want it. Somehow she knew that she could care for him in his hour of need, but when the tables were turned - she could not let him near her a moment longer. "I must go, I have patients to attend to, and there is work to be done. I have been away long enough."

"Sit down," he ordered, and she would have protested, and yet something about him had turned fierce and protective, and so she did not, even as she bristled at being ordered about in such a presumptive way. "Tonight, it is you who are the patient… you shall return to your quarters and you shall sleep. I shall summon a guard to escort you to make sure you do so, and I will make your excuses to your father."

"I cannot sleep," she protested, and he turned back to her with an almost amused look in his eyes.

"Of course not, but you shall try. I shall fetch you a small amount of wine, and you shall drink it, and when you return to that little room of yours you shall lay your head upon your pillow and close your eyes. Sleep will claim you, Lothíriel, I promise you. For the mind is not unlike the body and it knows how to heal itself." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Wait here. I shall return shortly."

She thought of fleeing, but his words had wisdom, and so she obeyed, waiting till he returned with a goblet of wine. She drank it dutifully under Éomer's approving gaze and when she had finished, allowed him to raise her to her feet.

"I have told your father that you are unwell and intend to retire, and he is quite concerned and agrees that it is the best course," he said, "I shall bring you to the main entry of the hall, where your brother Erchírion is waiting to escort you back to your quarters."

She nodded, suddenly feeling quite tired, as if it was a great effort to even stand. "Thank you, my lord."

"Éomer," he said then. "I will only ever accept Éomer from you, if we are alone."

"Éomer," she repeated.

"I would kiss you goodnight," he said then, his voice low and gentle as he looked her up and down, and there was a fierce and possessive warmth in his eyes that made her catch her breath, even as the depth of feeling behind that look frightened her. "For to me you are still the girl in the healing houses, and little has changed. However, I am afraid of prying eyes, and would not dishonor you in any way, lady, at least - any way further than I have already done so." His brow furrowed then, and he shook his head and looked down at her hands in his. "But we need not speak of that now. Go now and rest, lass. It will keep."

He escorted her to the entrance of the hall and deposited her in Erchírion's care with scarcely a word more. She looked back at him once as her brother led her away, and saw that his eyes had followed her as she went. She turned away, feeling her heart swell and throb under his regard. If before in her darkest moments she had clung to the memory of him as a desperate escape, now she knew that the extent of her feelings for him had deepened irreversibly. The tender longings of her heart had turned to a fierce and almost painful love.

* * *

[A/N: Oof, this chapter was for some reason really hard to write. Navigating these characters I've drawn up and wanting to do the complexities of their situation justice is not easy, and it was a headache in many ways, and I'm still frustrated, but here it is. I wanted to get it out to you, as we all need a distraction! I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Again I hope you're all staying healthy and your loved ones also. As many of you said, reading fanfiction can be a pleasant escape, and hopefully this story and each update alert brings a little bit of joy to you when you see it in your inbox! As always, I love your reviews, and if you sign-in and review I will always try to respond personally to each one (although I'm a bit behind I think). Guest reviews are beloved as well, but it's sad when I can't respond in kind!

Wash your hands and stay home! ~~ all my love, GB ]


	5. Honor

5\. Honor

As Éomer had predicted, Lothíriel's mind ultimately gave over to her body's fatigue and she did sleep, a long and dreamless sleep that she could not easily shake. When she woke, the warm light that flooded her room told her it was nearly midday, a far cry from her customary early mornings. She rubbed the haze of sleep from her eyes, wondering why no one had come to wake her. Perhaps they had tried, but could not rouse her.

She dressed carefully, thoughts of strong hands and gentle words flooding her mind, and ventured to her travails.

She was met with kind greetings, and she apologized sheepishly for her tardiness, but was brushed off. She wondered with some chagrin if she was being met with leniency due to her station, but did not know how to ask. Still, she applied herself with extra fervor to her work, trying to atone for the morning's absence, and it was not until the eventide that she stopped to take stock of herself.

She had hoped to take a quick supper with her cousin, who still convalesced from his wounds in the healing houses, and went to do so, but it was then that she remembered her promise to bring books to Muinor, the boy whose amputated leg she had debrided the day before. She had tended to his leg that afternoon, but he had been asleep, and she had made a note to herself then to make an errand of procuring books for him. So she spun on her heels and ran quickly in search of the little library she knew was contained in one of the corners of the healing houses. It did not have an extensive selection of books but it was a start. Most were quite dry - for what reason she could not decide - who in their convalescence would find pleasure in reading a historical account of medical instruments or a history of the stewards of Gondor, but she did find an account of famous knights of the past age that was written with some style.

"It is a poor present," she said, presenting the book to Muinor, who pushed himself up to seated when he saw her. "But perhaps it will offer you some escape until I can find you better books."

"Thank you," the lad said dutifully, taking the book from her half-heartedly.

"Are you in much pain?" she asked, and he shrugged his shoulders and thumbed through the pages of the offering. She busied herself with checking the bandages on his stump, eyeing Muinor as she did so. He looked resolutely away, a muscle in his jaw working. _Poor boy. _

"Do you have family, Muinor?" she asked brightly, to distract him.

"My mother, and five brothers and sisters," he said.

"Have they been to see you?"

"Once," Muinor said, "But my brothers and sisters are all younger than ten and she is…. she is busy. Our home was spared, but most of our neighbors' were not."

"Well," Lothíriel said, replacing the bandages and pulling the covers back over him. "I dare to say that you will be able to go home soon. It is early days yet, but everything is healing nicely."

"Sometimes I wish…" he trailed of. She looked up at him with curious eyes. He had caught himself and it seemed too important a thought to let go.

"What?" she pried, wanting him to finish.

"I wish I had died," he said, looking straight at her with those piercing blue eyes, "Straight away in the battle or of infection."

She felt her heart clench at his admission and paused with her hands on the bed, steadying herself. "Muinor."

"I do."

"You will see things differently," she said cautiously, "After a time."

"How do you know?" he asked.

She shook her head, at a loss. "I - I don't. But I know that you are alive, when so many are not. And that has to count for something. Please do not give up hope."

His eyes, which had been so devoid of emotion before, brimmed with tears. "I do not see why I should live, and yet have to live this way."

"It is unfair," she murmured, swallowing, "You have been dealt a heavy burden and if I could change it for you, I would. But I cannot. I can only hope to help you through it."

"To what end?" he exclaimed, "I have no future."

"I will not let you talk this way," she said fiercely, covering his hand with her own, "I shall not allow it."

"Why do you care?"

"It is my duty to care," she said, then shook her head, "Nay, it is my calling to care."

He did not look at her then, and she sighed, squeezing his hand before releasing it. What more could she say or do for him? Her own despair called out to her, and she remembered the moments in the endless chaos, and in the quiet waiting as the armies of the west rode to the Black Gate, when she had wished for death to claim her, for an end to it all, and shook her head gently to clear it and keep the memories at bay.

"You should rest, Muinor. We will talk more tomorrow," she said, and let him be, her heart heavy. She did not know how to help him, and that truth tore at her fiercely. She was learning to mend flesh and heal the body, but there was far too much she did not yet know, namely of how to heal the soul.

* * *

The evening went on, and Lothiriel, pulled into treatment of infections and fevers, did not have much time to reflect on Muinor or of much else. She worked late into the night, until at last, her mentor Aerandir took one look at her and noticed she had begun to sway upon her feet and dismissed her firmly. Seeking respite, and not bearing to go back to the confines of her little room, she stepped outside the healing houses onto a terrace lit softly by a few torches and that overlooked the vast plains of the Pelennor, which spanned out into darkness, illuminated only by stars and a pale sliver of moon.

Breathing deep the night air, she removed her head covering and her apron and looked out at the dark outline of the mountains, marveling again, as she always did, that the skies above the jagged peaks were clear and and that a blanket of stars shone brightly across them. For as long as she could remember from her visits to Minas Tirith in her youth, those skies to the east had been shrouded in heavy black cloud.

"Lass."

She nearly jumped out of her skin for she had thought she was alone. She looked towards the sound of the familiar voice. He was sitting on a stone bench and rose to greet her when her eyes found him.

"My lord - Éomer," she managed in surprise. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, "It was not my intention."

"You always seem to find me when I least expect you," she said, smoothing her hair self-consciously. Other healers seemed to manage to maintain cool calm brows and pristine garments, when not dealing in blood and gore, but at the end of her shifts she was sweaty and bedraggled.

"Nay, this time it was you who found me, I think," Éomer replied, a smile in his voice.

She nodded and folded her arms across her belly, wanting suddenly to flee - or to run into his arms. She searched the smooth marble tiles beneath her feet for an excuse to leave.

"Lothíriel." Éomer's voice seemed to catch as he said her name. "Are you well?"

"Yes," she said, raising her face to him reluctantly.

"You look quite worn out," he said, and she flushed. She looked him over in turn.

"So do you."

It was true. He was much more put together than she, handsome in a white shirt that billowed out beneath a dark, fine tunic, but his face, even in the shadows, betrayed fatigue and worry. Oh, she wanted to go to him and trail her fingers across the furrows that creased in his brow, to smooth them and caress them into peace. But it would not do. She knew not what he expected of her, or how she should behave. The familiarity they had shared not two days prior was gone, and yet, not gone at the same time.

He chucked then, a quick smile flashing bright in the darkness. "I suppose I must."

"Are you alright?" she asked, "What brought you out here to sit in solitude, so late in the night?"

"I could ask you the same question."

Lothíriel smiled in reluctant agreement, her heart leaping uncomfortably from the way in which he looked at her.

"I am well," Éomer said then, after a time, answering her first query. "Although there is much to be done — my uncle —," he sighed and broke off, as if the mention of the fallen Théoden King was too painful.

She felt the urge to go to him, but resisted it. It would not do to throw herself at him. She understood instinctively that his grief was private and that it was not easy for him to even let her catch a glimpse of it.

"I am gravely sorry for your uncle's passing," she said truthfully, and he raised his eyes to meet hers and looked at her with grateful warmth.

"He was the only thing I had to a father, after my own father returned home on his shield and my mother went mad with grief. From the Aldburg Théoden summoned me and Éowyn to Edoras and raised us as his own alongside Théodred, his son. Now they are reunited, my uncle, my cousin, my mother. But of our house, only myself and my sister remain."

"You have known much loss, Éomer," Lothíriel whispered, "I grieve for you."

"You have an open heart." Éomer took a cautious step closer to her then. "Ah, lass, my body cries out for you, and I would hold you in my arms and never let go, if it were to your liking."

She caught her breath, and indeed, he took her in his arms, but he did not claim her mouth as he might have, only pressing a tender kiss on her brow, before pulling her closer so that her cheek met his shoulder. It was a possessive gesture, the way his hands splayed across her back and drew her close to him so that the lengths of their bodies were flush with one another.

Although she could have stayed there for hours, she resolutely drew away to look at him, as difficult as it was to extricate herself from his comforting and overpowering embrace. "Éomer, you — you speak with much passion, and I would be easily overcome — we must talk, for there is much to say."

"You are right," he said, and he released her slowly, as if it grieved him to let her go. "Forgive me, I should not overstep. Indeed, I should not be carried away and proceed to make love to you. I meant to ask your forgiveness, when next I saw you. And here you are."

"My forgiveness?" she asked, confused.

"I have not treated you as one should a lady of your station," he said carefully, "Had I known who you were, I would never have taken you to bed. I have dishonored you, and I must make amends —"

She laughed then, befuddled. "Why do you think I did not tell you? My station was of little consequence in the thick of battle and in its aftermath, and when there came a chance to experience - passion, to know something of womanhood - you offered, and I took it with both hands. I have no intention of taking you to task for a gift freely given."

He frowned. "But when I came back, and burst into your room - again, I crossed every line and took advantage of you. I did not yet know who you were, no, but I was aware that you were of some noble bloodline, for you had all but told me as much before. And yet still I acted - I treated you like a common —"

"Hold, Éomer," she snapped, annoyed, "You treated me like a woman, and I thank you for it."

He shut his mouth, looking taken aback. "Lothíriel, I wish for you to understand —"

"Nay, I need for you to understand," she interrupted, holding up her hand, "For the first time in my life I have not been treated like some untouchable precious thing. And when you came to me, hot blooded from the battle, you ignited something in me, something wild and tender, and what we gave each other in that moment, and that first night, I at least was glad to give, and I did so with no regrets."

Lothíriel took a breath and studied him, wondering what he thought of her unchecked torrent of words. He was listening raptly, so she continued, watching his face all the while. "And when you did not ask my name, when we lay together the second time, I did not offer to give it, because I knew that the minute I revealed who I was, you would cease to look at me the same way. When you finally did ask me my name, I could not give it, for — for so many reasons, but my first instinct was right. Now that you know my name and title, you still look at me with desire and tenderness, but there is a carefulness to it, Éomer. You will never see me as the girl in the healing houses with whom you found solace, but as a princess, to be treated a certain way."

He lowered his eyes, but did not deny it. "I am sorry," he said then, "I did not see how keenly you felt the constraints of your station. I did not think."

"And this you surely know - I knew that once I gave my name, this dream we have been living, this wartime affair, would be irrevocably changed. There are consequences to our actions, Éomer, and we must face it. We are not entirely free to choose our destinies, now, you and I. As well you know, or you would not feel so strongly about my honor and yours."

He nodded. "Whether you think I have, or not, in the eyes of others I have dishonored you. I would make things right."

"In the eyes of others, who know nothing, nothing has passed between us," she said, wondering now what he meant by making things right, when she had made it quite clear that she had no expectations of him. "No one need ever know. There is nothing that can be made right, for in my eyes there has been nothing wronged. But you are right, we are no longer two strangers lost in the dark finding comfort in the last calm before the storm - we each have obligations - and whatever momentary happiness we have found pales in the light of duty."

"Happiness?" Éomer's gaze turned quizzical, then intentional. "I know little of what happiness in this new day and age will mean, but I think that I may have found something that makes me very happy, and I would cling to that happiness if I can."

She blushed at his intimation but fought to maintain reason, for although he was circling around the question, she felt she knew what he was about to say, and it frightened her. "Éomer. You are now King. It may be that you are not free to seek your own happiness when it comes to your future, when it comes to choosing a queen, siring heirs - you must do what your country asks of you. As must I - although I confess that I would rather remain here in the healing houses then return to my old life, a princess in a cage…" she trailed off, not noticing that his own gaze had turned rather stormy.

"I have not spoken of marriage to you," he responded, "Although I… was prepared to ask it, Lothíriel, for you are the daughter of a man whose friendship I value, and I have a duty to marry you, and were you to express that you wished me to marry you to make amends, I would have done it gladly and without question. It would be the right thing to do, and in truth I ought to do it." She raised her eyes to his, not exactly surprised, but astonished at his candor and his keen sense of honor. He sighed, lifting a hand as if to cup her cheek, but he appeared to think better of it, and dropped his hand.

"I am not so blind to you, however, and to the nature of your soul as as to have presumed… Still I knew I must ask it all the same, to be honorable," he admitted. He looked at her then with a deep intense fondness that was also quite sad. "You did not ever strike me as a woman who would demand such things from me - I see a quiet fire in you that, for all its quietness, seems to burn more brightly and strangely than anything I have ever seen in a woman. Your path may be different indeed, and it may be that what has passed between us is something that you wish to leave behind in the memory of the war. And I… I would understand that, Lothíriel, if that were the case."

These observations of her and her path surprised her and made her feel warm, but also caused a twinge of pain. He seemed to see her more clearly than she even saw herself and his words rang true in her heart. He spoke quite frankly that he would understand if she wanted to leave their liaison behind in the past, and she flushed. "I do not know," she said slowly, "I do not know what I wish, Éomer, standing here before you. But you are right that I do not see how you and I could move on as we are, that perhaps what has passed between us was a foolish — that it was a decision made in impossible circumstances, and that we should leave it behind."

"Foolish, Lothíriel?" His hand came now to raise her chin, quite firmly. He searched her face. "Was it really so foolish, the way it felt when we were together?"

She shook her head under his scrutinizing gaze. "Not foolish, but not wise, either."

He nodded as if satisfied and released her. "I would not propose marriage to you here and now and expect an answer. Nor could I do so without seeking counsel and the blessing of our father. Know that I would not presume to do so without such a blessing… but I would not seek that blessing unless I knew that it was also what you wanted. It is clear that you and I are strangers, still, in many ways. And yet, I think we have shared an intimacy that goes beyond that which our bodies have shared. Is that not so?"

She looked up at him, surprised, but not in disagreement.

"Is that not so, Lothíriel?" he asked again, searching her face intently. She swallowed and nodded. Yes. They had shared more than the intimacy of the flesh.

"You have all but told me you do not wish for me to save your proverbial honor, and I will," he laughed then at the play of his words, "Honor that request, at least if I can. But at least, let us speak of it! I do not do so lightly. Surely you are not unaware of the fact that you and I would be thought a well-suited match. You are a high princess of Gondor. Yours is a station fit to wed a King. The alliance between our countries would be strengthened by our union, and the wealth of Dol Amroth would do much good for Rohan - a country that I must find a way now to rebuild. Our union would be looked on with kind eyes, I do believe."

"You have thought a good deal about this," she said, surprised at his level-headed assessment, and strangely hurt, as if he now weighed her as a political move. But of course this hurt was irrational. He was a king. It was, as she herself had said, his duty to consider it.

"Can you blame me?" he asked her, his eyes growing once more tender and knowing, as if he somehow could tell exactly what she was thinking. He had this effect on her, making her feel as if he could read her mind just by looking at her, and it unnerved her. He stepped closer to her again, and this time his hand really did come up to caress her cheek, the other hand sliding around her waist and pulling her tightly to him once more. "Lothíriel, I have thought about you often since the battle was won, and increasingly more so as the hours and days have gone by. If there were not so many other demands upon my thoughts, I daresay I would think of you nearly every moment. Forgive me for it, for I know it has only been…moments….between us, but I would have you know the depth of my feeling for you - even if you seem to hold me at a careful distance and will not allow me to know what you truly feel for me, even now."

She bit her lip and let him bring her forehead to meet his, wanting to succumb and let him woo her into accepting the not-offer. Oh, to wed him. To have him, her warrior, beside her for life. To warm his bed each night, to bear him children, little golden haired lion cubs like their father - But to wed him was not only to have him, to be his wife alone. It was also to wed his crown and his country. She would be queen. It meant she would give up her newfound work in the healing houses, and the freedom and fulfillment she had begun to find there. It meant a return, in many ways, to everything she had only just now begun to discover was a life she did not want, a life she had now all but determined she would flee.

Éomer tipped her chin up and kissed her, then, deeply, and she yielded to the kiss, for her own body had ached for it. He lifted her up, then, so her feet barely brushed the ground. When he ended the kiss, they both were breathless. When he set her back on her feet, she had to cling to him tightly to regain her footing for her knees nearly gave out upon his release of her. He smiled at her then. "I will not press you any more for answers, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," he said, "For I see there is torment in your heart, and it grieves me, but I am content to know for now that when I kiss you, your knees grow weak."

She felt herself flush red at his teasing, and he leaned his forehead against hers for a moment, caressing her chin briefly with his thumb, then set her at a distance, holding her before him by her elbows. "I will not kiss you again, at least until you say that you want me too. I know that you have much to do, and you must do it, but when all is quiet and your work is done, think on it, Lothíriel. Reflect on your heart and what it is you want."

She nodded in acquiescence, and he released her. "You must take better care of yourself," he remarked then, "I feel the fatigue in your body. If I had to guess, you have scarcely eaten today. You must eat and stay in good strength, if you are to do the work you have undertaken. Surely you can see the wisdom in that."

She blushed under his knowing gaze. He was right. She had forgotten to eat, and it had caught up with her.

"Need I force-feed you?" he asked then, his smile deepening, "Or will you promise to go straight to the kitchens and find sustenance?"

That bought him a laugh, which surprised her as it fell from her mouth. The sound of her laughter was still rare and it made her feel odd. "I promise to do so."

"Then go, Lady Healer," he said, with a fond smile that made her blush again. "Go now, before I take you back in my arms and dishonor you all over again."

"If you say that you have dishonored me - one more time - " she began to retort and he laughed at her bristling demeanor, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Go!"

She followed the command and went away, her lips still buzzing from his kiss and heart feeling warm and terrible all at once. What could she do with this man - resolute and honorable one moment, forward and seductive the next, then teasing and knowing, then back to rational and measured - who had stood before her and all but proposed a life beside him, but who also had affirmed a conflicting desire in her heart that went against any hope of such a life? She knew then that finding a way forward would not be easy. She would have to make a decision, and soon.

If it were so easy as determining her feelings for him, her decision would be made. She knew for certain that her love for him, love that had already begun to root fiercely in her heart, had deepened tenfold.

If only that were enough.

* * *

[A/N: Apologies for such a long wait between chapters. It was not my intention but I was quite stuck as to how to proceed and so I'm glad to have made a small installment. I hope you have all stayed safe and well during the long months of the pandemic and have not suffered great losses, but if you have, my heart goes out to you.

Thank you all for your continued support. I hope this story continues to do itself justice. ~GB]


	6. Remedies

6\. Remedies

Lothíriel woke early the next morning with a feeling of uncertainty crowding her heart and a sick feeling of dread that made little sense to her rationally. She lay awake in the pale morning light as if paralyzed by that sick ache, unable to drift back into sleep. Her dreams had been riddled with scenes of battle, chaos in the city, and loved ones' faces. She could not quite remember details, only vague, troubled images. Éomer's kiss and earnest words from the night before also played heavily in her thoughts, bringing mingled joy and confusion, but it was preferable to think of him than to remember her nightmares and so she fixed her thoughts wholly on him, tracing her collarbone with her fingers and remembering with sweet hungry longing the feel of his touch.

Sometimes when she looked at him, she saw the man who had ravished her so completely, the powerful warrior whose face and body she had recalled in the deepest moments of her despair. Other times out of that warrior came a humor and a gentleness that was almost boyish in its spirit. But then he became the young king, ever noble and kind, trying to do his duty and make amends for their situation, who treated her with the deepest respect and with a sense of honor that was almost maddening, and yet which endeared her to him at the same time. She had never known such care from any man who was not her kin - even more so than her brothers, at times. She felt as if he looked at her and saw her in a way that she saw herself, and that frightened her, as if she could not keep him at a safe distance.

She wished more than ever for a return to anonymity, to the safety of her little room and the embrace they had shared there. Would she could have him to herself once more, there in that bed, and feel his breath on her skin and his strong body enveloping her senses.

As pleasing as the reverie was, she soon grew impatient with her idleness and swung her legs out of bed. Her father had requested her presence to break the fast that morning, and as she had not been told to report to her duties in the healing houses until an hour before midday, she had no excuse but to face her family. It was not that she did not love them or wish to be with them, but she found that she dreaded their hopeful talk of Dol Amroth and of the future as if nothing had changed except for the better. How could they not see what she saw - the ruins, the wounded, the burned villages —? Her brothers, at least to her now, each seemed wholly unaffected by the battle, even energized by it. The young Swan Knights were seen as heroes and celebrated by the city, and while Elphir was too proud and rigid to show himself being swayed by such celebrity, she could tell that Erchirion and Amrothos for their part relished the attention and walked with a certain amount of swagger, swagger which was not entirely unearned, but which bothered her greatly.

Donning her simple habit, she met them in the courtyard where a breakfast of fruit and bread and hot tea had been laid out.

"Our healer awakes!" cried Erchiríon with a jovial laugh, "Good morrow, sister."

Lothíriel smiled and bent to kiss him on the cheek. "Good morrow, brother." She greeted Amrothos and Elphir and her father the same way and sat down to eat.

Sure enough, the conversation turned to Dol Amroth and plans for returning home. Elphir was eager to return to his wife and son, for his part, and was making ready to ride to Dol Amroth to tend to the city and reunite with his family. He would return in time for Aragorn to be crowned king. Amrothos and Erchirion spoke longingly of travels to Rohan later in the year. Her father seemed surprisingly amenable to that idea and Lothíriel's ears perked up in both surprise and curiosity. Imrahil's friendship with Éomer intrigued her, but she blushed to think of hiding her feelings when inevitably she would be thrust into their presence at the same time.

"And you, daughter, tell us your mind," Imrahil said, "You have been remarkably quiet."

"She is always quiet, these days, our Lothíriel," Amrothos chimed in. Lothíriel looked at her brother. When they were younger, it had been the two of them against their elder siblings. He understood her the most, Lothíriel felt, even when they did not seem to share their feelings with one another as freely as they used to. She found she missed him, and the rapport they had once shared.

"I am content to listen," Lothíriel said demurely, "I know you are all eager to return home. As you should be."

"And you?" asked Erchirion, as Lothíriel took a sip of tea. "Are you not also eager to return home? Surely you have had enough of toil and are eager to rest."

Lothíriel bristled, and looked at her brother, setting down her cup. "There is much to be done here. I wonder that you think I should be eager to cast off my toil - as you so put it - and readily return to a life of privilege and leisure."

"Sister, you have done bravely," retorted Erchirion, "I only meant that - " he sighed and broke off, looking at the others helplessly.

"You should be thinking of the future," said Elphir smoothly, "It is time you were married, Lothíriel."

"Oh, indeed," scoffed Lothíriel, "I might say the same for our brothers, who are both my elder, and yet I see no one reprimanding them for seeming entirely unconcerned with finding suitable matches."

"It is different," protested Amrothos, "You are a woman and must wed sooner than we."

"I am a woman?" jested Lothíriel, although she did not feel at all like jesting, "Am I truly? I had no earthly idea until now. How illuminating."

"Children," interjected her father, looking stern, "Enough." He glanced from face to face, prompting a contrite response from each of his children in turn. He turned his gaze finally to Lothíriel, who sat there with color high in her cheeks. Hers was the only face that held no trace of contrition. She met his gaze steadfastly.

"Lothíriel, it is clear that you care deeply for the work you are doing. You may continue your work in the healing houses, and be useful there, while our family remains in Minas Tirith. But it is my wish that you return with us to Dol Amroth following the coronation."

Lothíriel's heart, which had leapt at the first part of her father's statement, clenched. She looked down at her hands in her lap, wanting to scream. "I am not amenable to this decision. Let me stay longer. I have much I wish to learn. "

"It is not the place for you," Imrahil said, "Your brothers are right, Lothíriel. There is much we must discuss regarding your future. Your place is with us until that time comes when you should wed."

"Father, I —," she began, but the prince's gaze turned stern and foreboding. He shook his head.

"I will say no more. Do your duty, my daughter."

"I will do my duty," retorted Lothíriel with as much calmness as she could muster, "And for now that duty calls me. I have patients who need me."

She stood and left them without a word, her heart fuming. She did not wish to cry from frustration like a child in front of them. Her father called her name, but she did not respond.

* * *

Tying her apron and pinning her veil securely over her braids, Lothíriel hurried into the Houses of Healing and made her way down the wide, sunlit entry corridor where she crossed paths with the matron, Ioreth, who glided briskly in her direction flanked by two other healers.

"Would you take this to the Lady Éowyn?" the tall, imposing woman asked hurriedly, catching Lothíriel's arm as she passed. She pressed a small jar into Lothíriel's hand. "It is a balm to ease the ache in her arm and shoulder. I have not the time to bring it myself."

"Willowbark?" asked Lothíriel curiously, examining the offering.

"Mustardseed," replied Ioreth, shaking her silver-streaked head. "I will show you how it is prepared, if you can find your way to the apothecary room tonight after the eventide bell," was her afterthought.

"Thank you," replied Lothíriel gratefully, more than a little surprised. Usually Ioreth had little time to invest in her education, leaving Lothíriel in the hands of the other healers. The older woman bobbed her head in a hasty nod and trotted off in the direction she had been going.

Lothíriel smiled after her, ever impressed by the boundless energy of the matron, and then turned to go to Éowyn.

When she arrived in Éowyn's chamber, Éomer was there, talking in a low voice to Éowyn. Both sat in chairs, their heads bent in a manner of sibling confidence that Lothíriel recognized from her own experience as a sister. Éomer stood abruptly when he registered her presence. Lothíriel bent her head in a brief curtsy, hoping that her cheeks did not flush red at the sight of him.

"Lady Lothíriel," said Éomer, his tone warm.

"I brought a salve for the Lady Éowyn," she explained, searching for a way to avoid his intent gaze, for she knew her face would betray her.

"You two are introduced?" asked Éowyn, leaning forward in her chair. "Ah, but of course you would be. Hello, Lothíriel."

"Hello," Lothíriel said, suddenly finding it very awkward to be in the presence of Éomer's sister. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel quite well, as a whole," the fair lady said.

"You look well," Lothíriel said. It was true. Éowyn had remarkably pale skin, and yet now there was a tinge of color on her cheek that gave her a glow of health. "But your arm gives you trouble?"

"It aches from time to time," said Éowyn lightly.

"It makes her cry out harshly in pain, and at night she can barely sleep," interjected Éomer, and Éowyn shot him a look.

"This balm should help," said Lothíriel smoothly. "May I?" she gestured to Éowyn's arm, which was still bandaged and bound to her body.

Éowyn nodded, and Éomer moved out of the way to give Lothíriel room. Lothíriel felt his gaze on her, although she did not think she could meet his eyes for fear of giving herself away to Éowyn. She carefully undid the linen wrappings and applied the pungent-smelling ointment to Éowyn's arm, fixing her gaze on her work.

"How did you meet my brother?" said Éowyn after a moment. There was a pregnant pause.

"At the banquet —" Lothíriel made to answer.

"Here in the healing houses," Éomer said at the same time. They both paused awkwardly and looked at one another, Lothíriel swallowing hard, her cheeks growing hot.

Éowyn looked from one face to the other, her brow furrowed in surprise and confusion, a query forming on her lips.

Lothíriel cleared her throat quickly. "As I tended to you, as you know, Éomer and I crossed paths here, in the aftermath of the Pelennor, but Éomer did not know my name until the other night."

Éowyn looked curious and looked at her brother in what Lothíriel read as suspicion. "Éomer? Why do you look so pained?"

"I —" It was Éomer's turn to clear his throat and shrug, "I am not pained."

"I prefer to keep my station separate from my work," Lothíriel explained, recovering her wits, "Here, I am no princess, only a student of sorts. A fledgeling healer. Your brother and I had spoken about you. I daresay it was a surprise to your brother that the apprentice who helped tend to you was the daughter of a prince, and therefore the daughter of his friend."

"I see," Éowyn said, and said no more on the subject. Lothíriel raised her eyes to seek Éomer's thoughts but he was not looking at her.

"I think your arm is healing well," said Lothíriel, finishing her task and replacing the old linen bindings with clean ones. "But it may ache for some time."

"Years, they tell me," Éowyn said solemnly, "Perhaps for life. But it is a small price to pay, in exchange for what has been gained." She smiled then, and a true light came into her eyes as she glanced at her brother.

Lothíriel smiled too, pleased to see hope in the face of Éowyn, knowing what she did of the lady's suffering. "Indeed."

She rose from her kneeling position and bent to gather her basket of supplies, but Éomer who got there as she did, his hand covering hers by accident and their heads nearly bumping. His gaze met hers in surprise, and he laughed sheepishly. "Forgive me," he said, handing the basket off to her somewhat clumsily. "I thought to help."

"Of course," Lothíriel said with a nervous giggle, straightening and wrapping her arms around the basket.

"Éomer, you are a bumbling dolt," said Éowyn, looking at her brother with amused disdain, "The sight of a pretty girl, and he becomes a chivalrous knight, but to the point of exasperating the women who earn his attentions."

Lothíriel looked at Éowyn in shock, for not only did her words make Lothíriel blush, this was the most sisterly and human thing that had come out of the fair and proud lady's mouth.

"Oh yes, Lothíriel, the Witch King's mace shattered my arm, not my eyes. I am not blind," said Éowyn. "It is clear my brother is quite taken by you and I daresay that his is not the only heart that beats wildly in this room."

"Sister, you go too far," Éomer said quickly, with pained amusement. To Lothíriel, he said, "Forgive my sister, Lady, she has always been foolhardy and I daresay the salve you put on her arm has entered her bloodstream and gone straight to her head and she knows not what she says."

Éowyn laughed then, a clear ringing sound. "Indeed, brother. It is clear that I am very much mistaken."

She looked at Lothíriel with a serene, pointed expression that said she did not believe herself mistaken at all.

Lothíriel laughed, uncomfortable with how clearly Éowyn seemed to have read the situation. What was it about these children of Éomund that made them able to see right through her?

"I daresay that you are both addlebrained," she stammered, embarrassed, "I shall take my leave, for I have patients to see to."

Not waiting for their response, she bowed her head and fled the room. Her heart did beat wildly, and not only for fear of discovery, but in warmth and hope and joy and confusion.

* * *

Lothíriel's next tasks were to change bandages and check for infections in the wounded, which meant that she would be able to look in on Muinor, the young man who had lost his leg. She had prayed to see him in a more hopeful state, but her wishes were not granted. Despite her cheerful chatter, he stared almost catatonically past her as if she were not there. She learned from the soldier in the neighboring bed, a good-natured man of thirty with wounds to his arm and hip, that the lad had not eaten that morning, nor the night before.

"Muinor," she whispered, as she finished tying the bandages on his healing stump. "You must fight this sorrow."

She squeezed his hand, searching his face for any change of expression, or acknowledgment of her words, but there was nothing, only emptiness.

She sighed and moved on to her next patient in the ward, doing her best to put him out of her mind. She knew not why his plight moved her so, more than so many others, but she felt a kinship with him, and a tenderness towards him. A part of her deep inside her, the part of her that in the darkest moment had teetered at the edge of the ruins of the walls of the city and contemplated taking that fatal step, feared that were Muinor to succumb to his despair there might be no hope for herself.

Later, she returned to check on him. Supper had been brought to him, but it lay untouched on the little table. Muinor lay on his side, facing the wall, away from the others in the ward. She sighed and bit the inside of her cheek, leaning defeated against the doorframe, wondering what she could do. Her heart ached,

A hand on her shoulder roused her, and she started. She looked down at the hand and knew from the sight that it was Éomer's He had found her, again. She turned to look at him, her heart too heavy to leap at his closeness.

"I thought I might find you here. I wished to apologize for earlier with my sister —," he began, but broke off when he saw her expression, 'Are you quite well?"

She bit her lip, and after some consideration, shook her head. She found she could no longer meet his eyes and he tipped her chin up, gently forcing her to look at him.

"What is it?" he asked, his face a wash of concern, "You are clearly troubled and I would help, if I can."

A sigh escaped her, and she found she could not reply, her eyes flicking back to look at Muinor. Éomer followed her gaze.

"Your patient - the boy," he murmured, releasing her face. "He is not recovering?"

"His body heals," managed Lothíriel finally, with a shrug, "What is left of it."

"What is left - ahh," said Éomer, after a moment. "His leg. I remember now. I watched you with him, that day before the banquet. It is good that he heals."

"Yes, but his spirit… he seems to sink further and further into despair."

Éomer was silent, looking thoughtfully from her to Muinor.

"I do not know what to do. I fear he will be lost to us if he cannot be reached. He will not eat, nor speak to those who try."

"He has known great suffering," Éomer said, "And his life has been altered. It may be that none of us can reach him. It is up to him, and only him, to decide to live again."

"I cannot settle for that!" exclaimed Lothíriel fiercely, "If I am a healer, than it is up to me to help him, body and soul, and none shall dissuade me."

Éomer regarded her calmly for a moment, until she realized she had spoken with undue sharpness to him and bowed her head. "Forgive me," she said softly, "I forgot that you were a friend and not my adversary."

Éomer caught her hand up in his palms and kissed it, meeting her gaze firmly as he did so. "Nay, Lothíriel, it is I that should be forgiven. You care deeply, and it is a gift, not something to be reprimanded."

She searched his face in soft disbelief. "That may be, and yet I have been warned about becoming too closely attached to those I tend."

He chuckled softly, and met her eyes with fondness. "I am not a healer, and do not know much about these things. And yet I know this: your tender heart and passion give you strength, perceptiveness and resolve, and should not be discredited."

Lothíriel lowered her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured, trying not to blush.

Éomer sighed then and kissed her hand once more discreetly. "Let me try to speak to him," he said heavily, "I know not if I can help him, but he is not the first I have seen who has been left maimed by battle. Perhaps I can reach him and help him find a way ahead."

"You would do that?" Lothíriel asked, her mouth gaping open.

He smiled softly and looked at her sidelong in candid amusement. "Is it such a surprise to you that you have moved me, lass? And, after all, what better use of my time could there be than to help a comrade?"

Lothíriel shut her mouth and stepped aside so that he might pass. His hand on her arm as he did so was steady and reassuring. She waited and watched a moment as Éomer pulled a chair close beside Muinor's bedside and spoke to the lad in a low voice, but she suddenly felt as if she was intruding on a private moment, and so she crept away. She had not forgotten that Ioreth had invited her to the apothecary room for training, and if she wished to take advantage of the offer, she would have to hurry.

—

As Ioreth had promised, she was at work in the apothecary room. The woman smiled, looking up from her labors. "You have come. I am glad. I was not sure that you would."

"I want to learn," Lothíriel said, "All that I can."

"It is well that you should," Ioreth said, beckoning with her head. "Come."

Lothíriel followed her directions and soon was set to work boiling olive oil, mustard and arnica in a pot over the fire, then straining the herbs through cheesecloth, returning the tincture to the pot and adding beeswax, stirring until the mixture was even.

"Arnica is poisonous when ingested," remarked Ioreth, "But topically it provides much relief, along with the mustard, and both are good for all sorts of ailments."

When they had finished dispensing the tincture into small ceramic pots and the apothecary table was clean, Ioreth motioned for Lothíriel to follow her.

"It is time you deepened your knowledge of anatomy and of the body and its ailments, as well as of herbs and remedies," proclaimed Ioreth, placing a huge and heavy stack of tomes in her charge's arms. "When you are not at work, study, and when you are not studying, work," she said with a dry smile. "If you are to be a true healer, there is much you must learn, and we will begin here, with the structure of the body. You must know the body inside and out, and be able to visualize it with your eyes closed."

Lothíriel nodded, wondering how she would manage her studies and her courtly duties, and how to tell the woman that she had been given an ultimatum.

"If this is a life you truly wish to lead, I expect you to apply yourself," Ioreth said, as if she sensed her charge's apprehension. "Otherwise, princess, I think it would be time that you left the Houses of Healing and returned to your old life, with our warm gratitude for your help these past weeks."

Lothíriel straightened her spine and met the older woman's assessing gaze, refusing to wither under the pointed barb the tall imposing figure had sent her way. She knew Ioreth did not mean it out of unkindness, but rather to impress upon her that this was not a place for her to play at healing, but a place to learn and master the art. They did not have time to indulge fancies and have her underfoot. She raised her chin, resolved. "I will learn it."

Ioreth smiled her true smile then. "Good. Go now and study, then sleep a few hours, and return at first light."

She bowed her head dutifully. "Yes, Ioreth."

She would have to tell her father she would not be able to continue to appear in court and that she did not intend by any means to return to Dol Amroth. She hoped that she could sway his mind. If not, she would have to find a way around him.

* * *

[A/N: I apologize for the long wait between updates. My city was rocked by racial injustice and I have been involved in some mutual aid efforts and community engagement… I've also had some personal struggles. I lost inspiration for a while for writing and this story, but I'm back now. I hope everyone has stayed safe and well, and I send my love to you all. Thank you for your support of this story!

Black and brown and LGBTQ and disabled lives, and poor lives matter and need to be treated with as much dignity and respect and fairness by the systems in our society as white and wealthy lives are. Poverty and suffering need to end for all. Health care is human right. Access to reproductive health care is a human right. No one should have to put their lives at risk for the comfort and convenience and profit of others by being forced back to work in unsafe environments during a pandemic. Stay home as much as you can and continue to wear masks when you go out. And register to vote!

~xox, Girlbird]


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